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A sudden breeze slices through a man's skinny calves. There is a dim but dawning awareness of pain through the soles of his cotton socks.

PSEUDOPOD's -- now even further away from him than before.

If PSEUDOPOD's pants were attempting to flee the scene, they did not make it very far.

They seem much better cared for than their owner.

The trousers are sad. Their owner has abandoned them.

Likely belonging to the man splayed, with much less care, in the nearby chair.

Your double's. They appear to have been here for some time.

Embarrassment isn't the problem. A much darker feeling is trying to claw its way into her consciousness.

HOLD ON, OPERANT. This is the phone Yana mentioned. The one even you now know is tapped.

Why would EMTERR care about a couple of impressionable old men?

Washing out the container that carried homemade rice and beans, glancing out the window above the sink as the sun goes down.

Don't look at the clock. Don't look. Don't...

Momentarily, the mumbling from the nearby stalls hushes, listening.

That did it. She's becoming hysterical.

Words that deny the frailty of his aging legs.

She can tell you're smoothing it over for her.

She can't believe you. She can't believe herself.

Not really. Bagman doesn't sound like he's trying his hardest not to cry.

Like something trying their hardest not to cry?

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Her eyes are bloodshot, hair lank.

Aren't you looking for someone who's missing, too?

She raises her hand to bite her nails. A new habit -- they're bleeding.

Anyone regularly listening to Bagman's sermons on reality could easily lose their grip of the thing.

Who in their right mind would not follow up on an invisible aircraft carrier?

Television doesn't destroy minds, you fool. It moulds them.

She's fading. No sleep. Three, maybe four days now.

Looking you straight in the eyes, sympathetic. She really doesn't know.

Sock merchant. One of the Opera's most battle-tested covers.

A scenario she has been forced to create in order to ignore a heartbreaking truth.

The words fade almost to nothing as they leave her mouth.

Her voice is thin -- she's not strong enough to carry them alone.

Behind her concern, a note of admiration, and a small shred of hope.

If what she says is true, then that payphone might be another way for you to get into the basement of that magzine office.

If what she says is true, that magazine office just got a whole lot more suspicious.

If what she says is true, that magazine office would be worth casing out in full.

She's been keeping some little lights glowing inside herself -- to guide his safe return. Now they have started to flicker, dim.

The shape is robust and clean, with an architectural asymmetry. Like a knife.

Knuckles white as she balls them into fists.

Her father, calling from beyond. Calling for her help.

She can only ignore it for so long.

She's not the intended readership.

A childhood boogeyman, suddenly and horribly real.

Who he is doesn't matter to EMTERR. It's what he did...

A scenario she has been forced to create in order to ignore a heartbreaking truth.

Not trusting herself to speak around the lump in her throat.

NOVESSAN SLANG IS NOT OUT OF DATE. IT IS ETERNAL.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 60 of 197