Reno -- the city's pre-eminent capitalist and head of Renotel, of the dolphin-themed payphones.

THE REAL PARTY IS OUTSIDE. ON THE STREETS. ARM IN ARM WITH THE MIDNIGHT PROLETARIAT.

When they eventually turn up.

The formalised Ending of History. Considered a fundamental misstep by almost all leading economists and philosophers.

The master treaty that Ended History and stagnated all current world affairs, signed ninety-six years ago by the Developed World and the Superbloc.

With the cessation of war between great powers, spies became the new soldiers. A twilit ascendency.

But a department nonetheless. Further proof that EMTERR are pulling the piano wire.

His 'department'? Press this.

'Human Capital'. The words frost your heart over.

The enemy behind the enemy.

And always in town.

The long shadow of EMTERR -- so long that many citizens mistake it for the sky.

EMTERR haunting the city... Could be routine economical gouging. Could be something bigger.

THE PHANTOM BOSS OF CAPITAL. EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE. IMPOSSIBLE TO KILL.

Hence the origins of its most abiding name.

These days they call this heavy gang the 'External Analysis Division'.

A slow yet inevitable evolution to its terrifying final form: a legitimate bank.

In some distant parts of the world, EMTERR is euphemistically called 'the Kindly Ones'. Using their true name directly is reserved for curses and insults.

DEVOURERS OF SOVEREIGNTY. CANNOT BE SEEN, CANNOT BE KILLED.

EMTERR is normalised. Something that sane, non-conspiratorial people can complain about to each other. All is right with the world.

Raw deal. The flowers will deprecate. The shift is forever.

TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF SHIFT!

WATCHING IMPOTENT LIKE THE EUNUCH IN THE HAREM -- DREAMING OF ALL THE BOURGEOIS HEDONISM HE WILL SOON COMMIT WITH HIS ACCUMULATED 'PROFIT'.

The ending of the End.

Above you, aero-tram cables tremble in the wind.

The man clutches his hair once more, even though your foot found his thigh this time.

Despite connecting with his shin, the man clutches his unruly hair.

Luz prowls back and forth beyond the den.

Nothing down there but disused buildings and kicked-in doors.

NAME IRRELEVANT. YOU KNOW HIM ONLY BY HIS EPITHET. 'THE NECRO-LIMBED SORCERER'.

Behind milky corneas, his eyes sharpen.

Even through the drunken haze, you can tell he was impressed.

An image, its negative, the image again.

A part of his brain kept screaming at him to cover his neck.

He's not lying -- it was all above board. Just morally on the floor.

THE SELF-DEFEATED ENEMY EMITS NO TREMBLE UPON HEARING OUR NAME. OR, CONCERNINGLY, ANY SIGN OF RECOGNITION AT ALL.

A tightly-bound profiteering brotherhood beyond the comprehension of lower classes.

Direct line of sight to the Campaign from here. You can see all of Party Alley from its top floor.

Both too close and too far from himself.

Agony breaks the surface. This man is an alcoholic, recently shoved off the wagon.

Equal parts capitalism and alcoholism, both late stage.

The child found mutilated, stuffed into the plumbing of a hot tub.

FAITHFUL READERS OF THE PARTY'S CIRCULAR KNOW ALL ABOUT THE DISTURBING TENDENCY IN SO-CALLED DEVELOPED COUNTRIES TO COPULATE WITH CONSUMER OBJECTS. HEADPHONES, PILLOWS, BICYCLES... NOW MODEL TRAINS.

You've wandered into some bizarre capitalist shit here.

This man has no gäng left within him. He had them once... but they've all slipped out the back while he wasn't looking.

Half of him half believes it.

Asset status: Endlessly exploitable.

A return. Closing in. Home.

Money. Power. King with no crown.

Renotel -- the dolphin payphones. Invisible courier of the city.

Checks