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.

You let him go. You let him go. You let him go.

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

You let him get away.

Circuits in your brain spark violently as they rebel against their own conclusions.

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.

Some primal part of your brain rejects the information like a gag reflex.

Someone has to die today.

A faint but all-encompassing shiver passes through the old man like a tree-shaking wind. Then it's gone -- the tree resettles, a few leaves less than before.

That was his last show of fear, now he sucks it all back into himself.

Behind you, a hundred black-and-white faces regard you with the sublime indifference of the dead.

He seems to be perplexed by his own question.

Your gun suddenly feels heavy, or is it your hand that feels weak?

It's hardly news. The Opera did not drag you back into the field to live a long and productive life.

Meat dragged out of the freezer starts going bad the minute it is done thawing.

The images come to you, one by one.

Prison, torture, madness, a bullet to the temple. A variety of fates, and history repeating itself.

Unfortunately, he's right.

No sense in lying at this point.

CARVE THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLICS INTO HIS MEMORY AND HIS FOREHEAD.

Understanding dawns on his features, and with it something like peace.

An echo from your first meeting with the prisoner.

No mocking inflection in his voice. He's asking honestly.

He's really outdoing us in the mystique department here. We're going to need a sick line before we slab him.

Best to engage your subject first. Get into his soul. You can't rush quality.

Enough fooling around. Drop the false livery. Let the Operant Bureau's anthem play him off the world-stage.

A pointless series of little gestures meant somehow to communicate death-readiness.

Playing dumb. Squeeze harder and he'll burst.

Seeing something beyond, or absent from, his immediate surroundings.

Checks