The sight reminds you of a set of stairs descending into the dark of the basement.

Still -- it'd be ballsy. They've been left out in the open.

THE SO-CALLED DEVELOPED WORLD EASING IT IN WITHOUT CONSENT.

Trafficked and then violated. Sick world we're in, Herschen.

Under your fingertips, cellophane wrapping gives way to cardstock.

Top-shelf tobacco. There's at least 500 sol worth of cigarettes in this crate.

Ash on a black fur collar. Piercing blue eyes through smoke, a laugh that could turn wicked.

A seagull shits nearby, white splatter across cement.

He knew they wouldn't be the thing to kill him.

Sharing one last breath.

You're going to have to smoke it with the sun in your eyes. You're going to have to live.

But no. Your friend is dead, and you're standing here like a pillock, burning your lungs on a soggy cigarette.

Tempo's favourite brand. The only person to actually enjoy their heavy flavour.

Bad trade.

You've seen these before. Smoked them before. This was Tempo's brand.

The smell of Luzian tobacco wafts up your nose.

The moments where you knew each other best.

That pen has been rejected for a reason. That much fancier pen of yours will do a much better job.

This came out of nowhere, but stick with it. Do not get distracted by, say, a strange crack in the floor.

Every tangle of nerves in your being rebels against this. A sure sign you're On To Something.

No, no, no. This file was supposed to be destroyed. Don't bring it back!

We're picking up mega-bad vibes here.

Relish in the art of bloodshed.

There are other terrible fates for your kind. You know of a few.

So, technically: no.

STATE SECRETS ARE NOT TO BE SHARED. THEIR DETAILS ARE NOT EVEN A PRIVILEGE EXTENDED TO INNERMOST COMRADES.

Anthropomorphism is real. It is the human mind doing its best to interpret signals from beings that communicate in more estranged ways.

Face it, operant -- sincerity and authenticity are not for you. Better to apply your talents for forgery and imitation.

What is Melita doing right now? Is it in any way related to you? And if it's not related to you, is she maybe daydreaming of you a little bit?

The smell of cola floats through the open crack in the window. A passing aero-tram hums above, unseen.

No need to overthink this. This task doesn't require actual poetic talent, only the skilful mimicry that is your stock-and-trade.

Something behind all the meticulous layers of professional politesse. A hunger. Not for food nor sex nor even, really, for beauty...

Your character is a woman chronically obsessed with her own pain, a cripple, almost, but one who filters it all through an engine of language.

In a nearby office, a middle-aged woman lifts her glasses, focusing on a younger person sat behind a large desk. The woman's insides burn with a malice that is realised as rhyming couplets pieced together in her head.

Hold on, are you really going to submit this carbon-copy? There's neither blood nor truth on this page.

THE VERY EMBODIMENT OF BOURGEOIS 'VALUES': PROFESSIONALISM AS ETHICS.

The fact that none of your dreams can be remembered is a sign of fragmented sleep.

Probable cause: high-stress.

Planisphaerium. Transubstantiation.

DEMILITARISATION. FORTIFICATION.

Hysterectomy.

It's shit.

THAT IS THE RISK YOU TOOK THE MOMENT YOU LEFT THE SUPERBLOC, AND THE REASON THE OPERA KEEPS A SPECIAL TAB ON YOU.

The colour reminds you of pomegranate.

It screams: 'DANGER, NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION.'

All true, none of it useful just now.

What can't be forged: The surge of all-engulfing sadness you feel as your hand rests on the page.

In short: Born capitalist, reborn communist.

The bullet nuzzles your aorta. Your heartbeat flutters.

AS OUR MORAL STATISTICIANS HAVE REPEATEDLY INSTRUCTED, 'SUICIDE' IS MERELY A COWARD'S WAY TO SPIT ONE LAST TIME UPON THE PARTY.

Checks