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

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

Who are you to say, either?

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.

You brain recoils from the question with the terror of a paleolithic huntress wondering what lies beyond the horizon. You do not want to touch the edges of your world.

Experience the flow of time.

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.

Her faith is impenetrable. Anything you disprove will have an answer that wraps itself around it and subsumes it.

She really wants you to explore the silo for her.

It's not about the dolphins. There's something else here.

Asset or ex-asset, under no circumstances should you expose HOLOCENE.

Insane, but not a fool -- she intuits some other purpose.

But she smiles like she does.

THE PEOPLE'S SPY IS A GOVERNMENT PROGRAM.

A feral cunning revealed. About to bolt or spring at the first false move.

An insane copper stripper wants to use you as a canary in a coal mine.

It's time to re-evaluate the decisions that have led you to this point.

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

You have never been paid in a more degrading way.

She's like a bottomless well. Shake her and more will come out.

An insane sun rises from behind her eyes.

The twisting of your guts confirms it: You have done a very bad thing.

Somehow you know she is right: where you are going, money will not help you.

An odd, slight peal sounds when she moves. Like distant bells, or the jangling of construction rods.

Danger! Don't touch.

Your skepticism runs dry in the face of a real trepidation.

A pale, screenlit face watches in expectation.

You feel nothing. If you expected a surge of energy, a rush, that is not where this was going. And yet...

Skin burnt pinkish, hardened to elephant hide by exposure to the city elements.

Strong and unhealthy. A lifeform that would refuse to die if you crushed her.

Wait. There's something off about this woman's off-ness... she's not what she appears to be.

The scent of a hundred thousand grubby hands and the insides of cash registers. The fibrous toughness of paper indissoluble in water.

There is nothing false about that money.

You've waded into a trap. You don't know how or what kind, but nobody gives away cash like this for nothing.

Checks