This must be the front for the Azzurri mob, mentioned by the Boatman.

You've seen this kind of bravado before. He's running some kind of side-hustle.

Easy -- he's obviously not harbouring a grudge.

Worried.

He's thought about it, turned it over and over in his head until it all clicked.

In another life, he'd have made a fine operant.

How can we not love him? He's got all the makings of a top-tier gäng member. Solid right through.

A mild, yet regrettably symmetrical case of double-strabismus.

He can't take his eyes off your outfit. Must be jumpy around law enforcement.

THERE IS NO AUTONOMY WITH THE BANK'S ROTTEN TEAT IN YOUR MOUTH.

Shit. We're about to get shot for a third time.

Ghost bullets don't hurt. Good to know.

You hear excited screams from behind you.

A figure so storied that some inevitably got lost.

'Nestorismo' -- Nestor's personal brand of politics. It meant whatever he meant at that moment.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

Surrounded...

Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts!

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Made by a bullet, undoubtedly. Things were getting heated in this Portofiran People's Assembly.

This structure is not stable. Anything could happen, withdraw your poker immediately.

THRUST PROUDLY INTO THE ORIFICE. CONFIRM THE STRUCTURAL AND IDEOLOGICAL IDENTITY OF THE PARTY HEADQUARTERS.

Lips in the concrete, singing to you.

You hear someone's voice singing, but only for a moment.

A chill runs down your spine as the true meaning of her words sinks in.

Somewhere in the streets of Quisach, a well-to-do teenager grips his little sister by the hand and scrutinises the face of every beggar, every outcast squatting by a canal or hobbling through the alleys, wondering if, maybe...

It sounds like a yelp of pain.

This is what remains after you have ripped out all attachments by the root.

An involuntary twitch takes over one eye. A short-circuit, a glitch.

Pointless to wonder. Best to steel yourself and carry on regardless.

There's nothing to contemplate here, just the ramblings of a madwoman.

Humour: sub-zero.

An index finger hammers on the mouse. One click, and time jumps forward by exactly one minute.

A minute passes.

Another minute passes.

The huntress balks. The fear inside her is the germ of that which one day will become religion -- an intuition of powers existing beyond, outside her world.

You could prolong the stillness... forever.

But if you do anything -- even think about the stillness -- then it jumps forwards, without you even noticing.

The huntress kills a boar, but instead of eating it, she sets fire to the massive corpse and watches the smoke ascend -- an offering to the superstructures which she can only conceive of as Gods.

Like trying to meditate -- the harder you try to grasp it, the more elusive it becomes.

It's catching. And you're halfway there.

She laps from the same pool as Malen's father, who got himself kidnapped after hearing about the Phone that Makes People Disappear on this same show.

This Bagman is the fibre of the web connecting all paranoia in Portofiro.

Strip enough illusions away, and you will be left with nothing, not even the barest trappings of personhood.

Something flares in her eyes. The same sheen of keen paranoia, brightened threefold.

Brighter. Madder.

The heat of unwanted attention prickles your skin. She wants something from you.

You look into her eyes. She's not on anything chemical, nor is she sober. This is a different kind of high.

Checks