He won't brush you aside so easily now.

Your approach is laughably unbalanced. See how he deflects you with a flurry of maladroit gestures.

The physical body often telegraphs the feelings that trouble the insides.

Anxious disposition. Cold sweat. Likely stomach problems. It's all there...

You've seen yourself like this before.

This 'mysterious gap' may be connected to the Grand Lich's arrival. You should investigate.

A pained intensity in his lowered voice that strains his vocal chords.

Old pilots? He must be referring to the table of nattering old men you passed on the way here.

UNACCEPTABLE. THE PEOPLE'S REPRESENTATIVE WON'T BE OBSTRUCTED.

This rocket is close to lift off. No room for a co-pilot in that command capsule.

Beneath the pleated folds of his trousers stirs something fleshy and horrible.

For his services at this payphone he is paid nothing -- and yet, he remains number one employee of the month, every month.

Make an assessment of the phoneline hog.

His only source of relief is the sweat seeping into the fabric of his wind-whipped collar.

Stop. Scent of prey. Pupils dilate.

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.

He is all limbs, an unloved body at home only in the most ergonomic of chairs.

Pale, moist, clammy. Like a deformed frog plucked from the canal there.

Already set on life's glide path, and all it cost him was his humanity.

He may be delusional, but he's not attempting to deceive. He believes every word.

The bazaar full of genuine Luzian tech -- gadgets outnumbering people, their bodies crawling with fresh devices... yes...

REGULATE THEM STRAIGHT TO THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES AND THE MATTER WILL NOT ARISE.

Especially him.

A GROSS UNDERESTIMATION OF THE PEOPLE'S ARSENAL. THERE ARE STILL THOUSANDS OF LANDMINES BURIED FROM THE LAST WARS.

It would be an honour to be the ground beneath a Luzian L-56. Their tracks print the initials of their most decorated generals.

Kill this little shit.

THIS CLASS-FOE MUST BE MADE TO RELINQUISH THE PUBLIC'S INFRASTRUCTURE.

If you want to use the phone you're going to need to dislodge him first.

ONE OF CAPITAL'S ARCH-VILES. A CLASS-FOE PAR EXCELLENCE.

It's stirring some very counter-revolutionary feelings deep down.

A feeling like an ice-dagger pierces your gut.

You suspect this is going to cost you another drink at least.

Hopefully he hasn't completely passed out yet.

Oskar Metamoto... the Party Alley casualty.

An orgiastic dance that, in another time, would summon a fertilitous god from the boil of the sky.

Motions entirely devoid of grace. A complete lack of bodily control.

SUCH AN INSULT TO THE PEOPLE'S DRIP CANNOT GO UNANSWERED.

May be time to make a visit to the Party Alley tailor.

We can't stand for this disrespect any longer. Time to Assemble!

The way forward is obvious. Duchess surely knows what this 'gap' is all about.

Engaging with the flesh is pointless. This problem demands a more elegant techno solution.

You've already brought RADIAN back into your orbit. He should make short work of this task.

You've already located RADIAN. Get him back on his medication and he'll surely make short work of this task.

This task screams RADIAN. If you can locate your former asset, he'll surely make short work of this task.

Whoever's on the other end of that call surely knows what this 'gap' is all about.

Immediate terror. Real, unfeigned, unkinky terror.

True admiration. Even now he regards the reassembled model-kit with appropriate reverence.

It takes all his strength to negate what the model train is doing to him, but it has already had its effect. Pliancy increased tenfold.

Can't even convince himself with the insults jittering out of his brain.

Checks