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ETERNAL AS THE PROLETARIAT.

His fingers ripple nervously across the handle of his briefcase. He checks his watch.

Debris, twirling in deep space. Mute.

Throwing gäng signs. Throw one back so he knows you're on the lëvel.

A guilty silence.

He doesn't give a FUCK.

He's braindead. He has no pants.

Or anything. He's braindead. He has no pants.

CASCADE AND THE INVALID TEN THOUSAND AND ONE YEARS.

They spy so much harder.

He's braindead, Hershel. No trousers.

That's why he's drooling. The memory of your caress.

Finally. You've found something he fears.

Pure heartbreak. Look at his face. Look what you've done.

His heart forever torn, if you were to put your ear to his chest you would hear its tender, arrhythmic sob.

Woah... That was no way to speak to gäng...

He's insulting you.

How do you know you aren't him right now?

Not a single twitch of recognition.

He's not going to move. He has no mind.

Those hands aren't looking like grabbers.

Feet rooted to the ground, hands slack. He's not interested in firearms. Or the afterlife.

You know the answer.

Leave your fears with him and move on, Operant. You have a murder to commit.

Need better fuck glove.

A new and strange crime added to your ever-lengthening rap sheet.

If you're right in your assessment of your own moral virtue, then he too is programmed to be evil -- you have busted the machine's central circuits. This is a good thing.

Could have guessed. Quite easily.

That would be killing you. You know you've thought about it. Do you want to watch?

There's nothing in there. You cannot count on 'nothing'.

Is that a frown? He's puzzling it out. Give him a moment.

THE SILENCE OF TRUE SOLIDARITY.

You could marry him for real after this, just think of all the arguments you'd never have.

Listen to him. Unperterbable, unmovable. True gäng.

Your recall the THWACK of foot making contact with his forehead. He looks hurt, lost. His glasses are on wrong.

Maybe you've got it all wrong and he's too deep in thought. You've seen this expression before on many a model train enthusiast.

His cleats go CLICK CLACK on the hard ground.

Shoe fangs. Good shoe. You're being out-fucked by this freak already.

A red disc passes from one man's hand to another, disappears into a leather briefcase.

Shit, he's remembered.

So lost that the idea of a connection, no matter with whom, far outweighs the loss itself.

His eyes lose focus and his lips move as he concentrates on deciphering this new information.

KALEIDOSCOPE told him.

Yours, too. More and more alike.

Does the imprint recognise another, or does he recognise Tempo?

A strange look passes across his face, followed by laughter.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 79 of 197