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A swarm of letters, uncountable.

Three in 145 character-pairs is 2%, which corresponds to the frequency for the most common bigrams in the regular alphabet -- TH, HE, and IN.

There is a structure, but you can only palpate at its contours like a blind woman.

The median of the chains is thirteen.

No pattern discernible.

Gibberish. The fact that it starts with a one digit number precludes this possibility.

You'd have to know how to use a map for this to be effective.

Chills run through you as the letters begin to spell out a plausible message.

Steady yourself. You've slipped deeper into the game.

Not for you. For enemies.

A piece of paper and a notebook is all you need to go insane.

The rows bore a hole somewhere in the centre of your forehead.

This is slow work, but it is logical. A methodical siege on a lunatic fortress.

Prepare body and mind for hours of fun.

The Opera have a machine dedicated to this -- if you want to capitulate, just take it to your controller and make it her problem.

Your attention span buckles and cracks under the strain.

Columns! You need to rewrite the cipher in columns and search for the amount of letters in the keyword.

When all other training abandons you, return to Opera's foundational tenet: make it up as you go along!

Through it a shadow text is threaded, one which may rise to legibility at any moment.

Featuring a transparent lid for the necro-voyeurs.

THE RABID DOG THAT DEFECATES THEN RECONSUMES.

Rumour has it that an old vending machine in Lower Viudas once sold anonymous murder confessions to anyone willing to pay ten sol.

YOU WERE WARNED. THE DEVELOPED WORLD WILL HAPPILY UNBURDEN YOU OF YOUR CURRENCY IN EXCHANGE FOR SERVICES NEVER RENDERED.

Maybe this machine fears you. Maybe it doesn't want to give away a part of itself to a stranger, but 'market conditions' demand it.

Suddenly, violently, you are aflame with indignation.

You meet this latest existential ridicule with nothing but resignation.

An old lesson, hard-learned: in the developed world, money is always the way forward.

TAKE ON THE SO-CALLED DEVELOPED WORLD.

The machine whines on impact, but you feel nothing.

That hurt. A lot. Expect mild bruising.

Extract what you are owed.

THE ENEMY IS DISMANTLING YOU, NERVE BY NERVE.

Delicious scarcity. Obtain.

ABSURD LOGOS, HOLLOW JARGON, PAINTED METAL. RESIST.

Are you 'special edition' enough to drink it? Gauntlet thuds against ground.

Boring. Boring. Boring.

'Ignatz' -- Could be the individual of flexible loyalties that Carmuna mentioned.

'Ignatz'... Nothing in the archives.

Acuerda -- a coastal city of the Illuminated Empire's mainland. A corrupt commercial centre functioning as the launchpad for Luzian goods, directed at the Developed World.

The crudeness of it points toward a sick joke by the Weeping Eye.

Cutting straight to our heart.

A surprise attack launched from your own past.

A set of implements arrayed upon a work bench.

They were counting on you, and you abandoned them. While they thought of you, you thought only of yourself -- you selfish little child.

Pressing against your heart once more.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 66 of 197