The man who's been following you?

The techno-fascist secret police of La Luz -- dark subconscious of the state, specialising in old school, ugly methods.

Your natural enemies. The ones who took you all apart five years ago. Hackles rise.

La Luz, the techno-fascists. Why would they send Operants to Portofiro?

Fear in her eyes. Like you're being watched.

It's paranoia.

Paranoia has saved the life of many an operant. Yours could be next.

Her movements are fitful and tremulous -- the arched back suggests a lifetime spent on her feet, contorted over something.

It runs deeper than that. Some kind of neurological cause.

She peers out from behind the pages, eyes softening. She has deemed you clumsy enough to be trustworthy.

She smiles and leans back, endeared by your threat.

You spot a flash of light from between the pages before she ruffles them away from you -- she's hiding something in there.

PSEUDOPOD convinced her to buy stock that she can't move, impressive.

Good thing he's fucked up then. Can't have him making you look bad.

Not impressive, then. Pathetic, in fact. A consolation order.

Impressive that he was able to win this woman over. He inspires empathy. Valuable trait.

She means we don't look like history set sail to 'Fuck It Island' and left us standing on the shore wondering what happened.

UNCURL YOURSELF. FLAUNT YOUR FINE COMMUNIST SPINAL COLUMN.

A soft click as he places his briefcase on the cobblestone, stops to clean his glasses. He replaces them, blinking up at the aerotrams and the birds circling beneath. He smiles.

DISABUSE HER OF WHATEVER INANITY SHE'S CONCEALING IN THAT MAGAZINE. SHE HAS INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR DOUBLE.

The former. Ask him again.

Sock merchant for the Im-Ex Bureau. One of the Opera's most battle-tested covers.

When she points to the rack you notice that her fingers are several shades too dark, as if stained with ink.

No, she knows, but she won't help out a thief. Looks like you're on your own.

Shining with a film of sweat in the orange glow, the lovers twirl and stomp. Cheers, singing, the thrill of the crowd. Ash rains on trashcan drums.

She glances at her own wares, daring them to challenge her on the fact.

She sighs, nostalgic.

Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

Shocked that you'd imply there's anything she couldn't tell you about Quisach.

She flaps her hand, dismissing space exploration as a logistical inconvenience.

Eyes flashing, voice lowered, some sweet and succulent secret on the tip of her tongue.

Which makes it anti-person, the ultimate fashion statement.

You better hope she really does forget it -- that was a question worthy of a child pretending to be an operant.

Never should have let you out of the freezer.

Turn yourself in. It doesn't matter what for. You need to be in prison.

Like a tree flaunting gnarled bark to the saplings in its shade.

A neurological affliction from the chemicals in the dye. Progressive. Irreversible.

Control of the docks and market have been passed back and forth between rival gangs for decades, but she's survived them all.

She doesn't know anything. Better to keep your own information about Tempo to yourself.

No she did not.

She said hussy.

Sounds more like she notices, but does not care.

Tempo is not attracted to women -- whoever this girl is must have had a different relationship with him to the one Carmuna is insinuating.

Survives them, too.

Carmuna's life flashes before your eyes. She never would have grown old had that day gone according to plan.

You try to picture Karolina older than thirty, and find that you can't.

Without that song, the bomb is purely decorative.

She has no idea how close she came to being paste on Nestor's ceiling.

She was an explosives mule.

She is a truly appalling judge of men's characters. How is she still alive?

Checks