That's the building where the Luzian prisoner is being held. The place you managed to escape from before being caught...

That's the place with the shiny new intercom near the roundabout. So it's a poetry magazine...

That's near the roundabout, east of the Bazaar. This poetry magazine must have its office there.

First impressions matter -- the person responsible for the design of this journal knows that.

Their pelts are damp and shiny with rain. You expect the smell of wet dog -- there is none.

Queen-in-waiting.

Beasts rendered ridiculous. Grotesque trophies.

These are knock offs. Fakes.

In the Portofiran plushie scene, some of the knock off labels have become their own commodity, almost as sought after as the real deal.

La Luz: Expansive techno-fascist state known for high quality electronics, pogroms, and pop music.

These are... not that. They're knock offs. Fakes.

BRAZEN POLITICAL THREAT! THE PILE DECLARES THAT THIS TOO IS THE FUTURE OF THE WORKING CLASS: DEFANGED, FUZZY, SOLD IN A HEAP.

Fuck off. Has to be. Root it out.

It's because they're defenceless. They trigger the impulse to nurture.

They trigger the impulse to crush. They're fuzzy so that they can withstand the violence of affection.

THE 'PLUSHIE' ENCOURAGES BOUTS OF 'SUBJECTIVE IMAGINATION' IN THE YOUNG COMMUNIST, UNGROUNDED BY MATERIAL FACT.

Plushie #3 has shredded the social contract.

Plushie #3 will bite down on the neck of the world and fuck it 'til it howls.

Plastic eyes teeming in the dark.

A hundred strong. If only they could move as öne.

And then they'll probably turn around and add even more wolves.

ALWAYS MORE WOLVES. A LUPINE REACTIONARY HORDE.

SUPPLEMENTARY PROPAGANDA, LOVINGLY COMMITTED TO MEMORY.

Sixty-six... like the wolves?

It's suddenly clear why, of all their programming, the Luzians seem so eager to push the cartoon through the Culture Blockade.

PROPAGANDA FOR THE JUNIORS.

Sometimes they try. There was a rather notable broadcast during Nestor's second deposement where Portofiro's top radio host called for that exact thing.

Rivers of waterlogged rainbow silk, clogging the canals. The body of the radio host soon to join them.

Hair in a silk wrap, eyes closed, hands clasped, she mutters under her breath for a full minute. Her husband is already asleep, used to this.

Don't even think about it. Too late. The assignment calls.

HISTORY CALLS.

Paralytic dread, a microsecond of indescribable agony, then eternal silence.

She smiles at you again, but her eyes are cold.

A life lived in a permanent state of war.

You have worn your true feelings too openly and aroused the suspicion of the enemy priest.

Continue to downplay your beliefs.

She thinks she's won this conversation, and there is nothing you could say to her that would convince her otherwise.

THE WAR-LOVING REACTIONARY CHALLENGES YOU IN THE IDEALOGICAL ARENA. WILL YOU STAND FOR IT?

Bite. Gnaw. Chew through neck.

YOUR FLOURIDATED COMMUNIST TEETH WILL MAKE SHORT WORK OF HER JUGULAR.

NONSENSE. SUPERBLOC MEDIA RECENTLY CELEBRATED ITS FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF DECLARING ITSELF PROPAGANDA-FREE.

True fanatic detected. Be careful what you say, and how you say it.

Keep clear of the nails! One swipe and she could open your jugular.

This is the Luzian version -- sanitised and brimming with valour.

The heavily applied paint gives off a petroleum smell that sticks to the back of your mouth.

This is full polycarbonate plastic and cancerogenic glory.

You'd need to be careful when drinking out of it. It's been designed with form in mind more than function, and its spiky angles could easily take your eye out.

Souvenirs, yes... good point. Are you really going to return to Melita arms swinging?

There's even a little tram station!

Incredible detail -- handrails, tools leaning on the shed, a giftshop sign. But the faces carved into the rock are featureless, unidentifiable.

Checks