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Carabineros: Portofiro's sanctioned police investigators. They report directly to the Prefectura and deal in actual crime -- murder, grand larceny, rape.

You. Have. Never.

No reliable entries. Just the dim feeling that's haunted you from the photo shop. A shadow hovering in the background.

No entries in archives, systems or communications. Expanding search.

Supposedly, The Vessel was disgusted by the practice, but eventually ceded as a political gesture to earn the support of the traditionalists in the Shogunate.

Scenes flash against the bedsheet screen of your mind -- framed in the same red veinage as the book's cover.

Some tossed off dregs involving space shamans and deals with ascended beings.

Around the words, a memory coalesces of HOLOCENE in his prime, novel held aloft.

The words jar a memory -- HOLOCENE engrossed within its pages, maybe the only time he was oblivious to the world.

It was you who taught him the cigarette trick in the first place. The Opera speaks to itself.

The shrine lacks the sacred air of Mircean churches you knew as a child -- it is an organic thing, maintained by locals of their own volition.

NO. RECORDS. FOUND.

Line 9 -- the same line the man by the aero-tram station was told to wait for.

All past entries pertaining to Operant CASCADE are stamped with the words 'NOT MY FAULT'. Twice.

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.

You recognise the patch sewn into his pants. It's the Carriles de Portofiro's logo -- the oldest transit company in the city.

In actuality, an urban myth prevalent among more casual ether users. Still, sweet of her to look out for you.

So this rumour about Luzian 'imprints' goes back at least a generation.

'Strange cousins'. How locals refer to the menacing techno-fascist superstate across the Noscorrentes Sea.

Your old haunt. Where you met with your former assets, once upon an assignment.

It must be said there's no mention of a 'Fogged Mirror' in the files. It almost certainly holds no deep personal or professional significance for you whatsoever.

Where do you know him from?

For your pomegranate red folder, she means. Material for future reviews, case studies and post mortems.

Except for the old Kohilan hands, who used to call it 'potatoes two ways'.

Except for the old Kohilan hands, who called it 'potatoes two ways'.

You realise you have seen no dogs in Portofiro.

No entries. Sounds fake and made up.

When you were the worst disaster of yourself.

A forgotten beast, hibernating in your hippocampus stirs, raises its head and snorts.

A.k.a. 'The Freezer'. The Opera's labyrinthine archival complex. Where the old, useless, and discredited are consigned until they're dismissed or die of despair.

Five years, three months, ten days. That's how long it's been since her voice was in your ear.

El Dolor de Viudas. Extremely popular at pelota matches and the main cause of Portofiro's looming epidemic of atherosclerosis.

El signo del Vega. Angel of ancestors and bringer of the new year.

Some astrological thing -- who can keep track of it all?

Fig. 1452: a linocut of an early diving suit, so primitive that the explorer had to be sewn into it before he went under — and cut free after surfacing.

It's the metal stripper. The one who urged you to come down here.

Most GMs don't carry guns.

If what you're looking for is still down here, it must be on the other side.

'He's no one. Just a seedy little oddity'.

For the last time, there were no such days.

An old-school, derogatory term for spies.

Know them? You introduced her to them.

An infamous image, from Nestor's 64 campaign -- the dictator, holding a baby with his own face superimposed over the infant's, moustache and all -- 'Soy Nestor'.

Nestor had already been forced from power the last time you were here. The toppled regime was old news.

In truth, it was Portofiro that got 'fucked' when the local economy collapsed and EMTERR swept in with another round of 'stabilisation' packages that only tightened its clamp on the city's collective throat.

KINDRED. You played down the cryptonym when she asked you about it half-drunk one night. Nothing to it, you shrugged. First name that came to mind. Which wasn't a lie -- it was the first. You just also happened to mean it.

You once heard an old hand say that the tortured walk their own province.

He was born within one. Knows little else.

There hasn't been a movie shown in this theatre in years. It was already closed when you were in Portofiro last, vacant and waiting.

Musicians. Electronic artists.

558 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 7 of 12