It may have been the techno-fascists that destroyed his homeland, but it's the entrepreneurial types that his disdain is really reserved for.

Even saying it gets him a little hard.

The Miracle Line. Must be what that card in your pocket is about.

A leaden silence descends. You have touched on something that should not have been touched upon.

The soundless words are clear on his lips: 'I was held in one'.

He will not lower it. Defiance keeps it aloft.

The glasses only magnify what is fundamentally missing from the gaze.

In his perennial lasciviousness, he's trying to throw a lifeline to his friend.

Read the story from Loud João's own lips.

The fleeting shapes of ghost-words flit through your vision.

An example, to prove the Developed World was 'serious' about cracking down on human trafficking.

Terrifying sterility. The inherent cruelty of human curiosity.

BEHOLD! THE TRUE FACE OF THE SO-CALLED DEVELOPED WORLD.

In your gut you already know what's coming.

Now you see it. Camouflaged in wrinkles, a necktie of scar tissue nestled in the folds of his throat.

Pain and pleasure, revulsion and attraction, all irremediably tangled.

EMTERR, a.k.a. The Bank. Somewhere between a global development bank and a private intelligence service with allegiance to none but itself and capitalism, EMTERR is the Opera's wealthiest enemy -- and therefore yours.

What begins as an attempt to understand the ex-pilot's story soon becomes a philosophical inquiry into the nature of human communication.

How does the human mouth work? How is it possible that our grunts and growls are comprehensible to others, silent or not?

He knows because he's tried.

Caught out. Fair play.

Envious.

PSEUDOPOD. It's as though he had been as much of a nonperson when he was alive as he is now.

The word comes out slurred, almost as though he had to slurp back saliva to pronounce it.

The filthy communality is what they get off on.

A tremendous honeypot, in other words. Waiting to be tapped.

You cannot rule out the possibility that she is a spy, that the vein has already been tapped.

Mild generalized discomfort. You have pointed out the elephant in the room.

THIS IS NOT A GLITCH IN CAPITALISM, BUT A MONSTROUS OUTGROWTH.

They act like the issue of money is secondary to the existence of the miracle line -- it's not. This is the issue itself.

A shudder passes through you from the sheer pleasure of his company.

A slender finger slips into the black curls of a phone cord and twirls them around itself... suddenly it pulls, and your breath cuts short.

Rapturous fantasies of masturbatory death overtake them.

Behind the jokes, there's a seriousness -- it's their one true pleasure in life.

Your controller's razor-edged voice comes to you, cold light from an infinitely distant star.

The john is always the enemy. She may have made him think they are friends, but they are not.

You can believe him or not, but the other pilots do, and they are eating their hearts out.

Toying with them like a cat with its prey. Now he breaks off another leg and watches the thing limp.

Eyes widen. The other men regard him like some kind of God.

Something's not right here. He's not exactly lying, but... nor is he telling the truth.

For one, to humiliate his companions.

Because he's more present than the other two, and capable of manipulation.

Fuck the children, they won't miss what they've never had. You need the wolf merch more than they do.

YOU WILL NOT BE THE VEHICLE FOR THE SPREAD OF TECHNOFASCIST PROPAGANDA TO IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG MINDS.

Nothing like 'kid's stuff' to really hammer home your obsolescence.

Final proof that he was not bluffing about her address. It's too much for the poor pilots to bear.

Sixty-Six Wolves! Fuck the children, they won't miss what they've never had.

YOU WILL NOT BE THE VEHICLE FOR THE SPREAD OF TECHNO-FASCIST PROPAGANDA TO IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG MINDS.

Stimulus and response. His breath quickens and below the table, his hands begin to paw at his lap.

The immense, blubbery mass of a manatee's lower half appears in your mind, utterly out of proportion with the svelte female torso that protrudes from it like a tumour.

Checks