ZERO PARADES/DistrictsParty AlleyReading: Open fileReadingOpen fileMy clearanceMy playthroughPreview cardMap⤢+Waypoints9Aero-Tram Station WestFogged Mirror21:00–09:30Gonza's Clinic15:30–09:30Mysterious TreeNorth East PayphoneNorth West PayphonePalace of CultureViewpoint Shift BarYana's SafehouseInteriorsCommunist HQFogged MirrorFoto 24Gonzo ClinicSafe HousePossible conversations441'...and he comes in on the left wing... and scoooooores!'Lines1'Beinvenido a la Calle del Partido'.Lines1'CLINIC OPEN 15.30 - 04.30'Lines1'Derecha: PALACE OF CULTURE'Lines1'Fine local goods, finer global tastes'.Lines1'FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL EVELYN, TERESA OR VALERIA'Lines1'It is the tenant's responsibility to dispose of their own rubbish.'Lines1'Izquierda: HOUSING CAMPAIGN'Lines1'No open flames. INCLUDING LIT CIGARETTES.'Lines1'NO TRESPASSING! BUILDING CONDEMNED'Lines1'No vehicles past this point.'Lines1'Overdue'... 'overdrawn'... overstretched, overworked, underpaid.Lines1More conversations 429'PARTY ALLEY, Zona Tres'.Lines1'RE-NO-TEL.' The ringing feels like it's come from another reality entirely.Lines10'ROOFTOP USE FOR RESIDENTS ONLY'Lines1'Swimming lessons w/ Paulo', 'Bin day is now BIWEEKLY', 'PARAKEETS 4 SALE'Lines1"..." His idiotic expression remains unchanged.Lines503"As I suspected, my sources were very pleased with your work. Well done, Hershel. It's an honour to work with you again."Lines377"Back again, are we?"Lines402"Back again, Hershel."Lines467"Back again."Lines643"CASCADE." The barest of nods. "I've been playing 'I Spy' relentlessly with myself to pass the time. Pretty even as things stand, but I'm…Lines1,138"Didn't work, did it?"Lines536"Goodbye."Lines829"Hello again."Lines839"Hello, hero."Lines602"Hello, lapinette."Lines681"Here again."Lines1,077"Hersh."Lines730"Hnng."Lines146"How goes it, H?"Lines1,339"It's cold out here." The girl rolls her shoulders and lightly stamps a foot.Lines1,530"Loneliest... of towns..."Lines1,042"No flyers, no pamphlets, no gum!"Lines392"Operant. Something big is happening, isn't it?"Lines1,133"Operant."Lines1,479"She's magnificent, truly. I've never had a subject with such poise."Lines1"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…Lines1,068"Still waiting, CASCADE. Slab's getting cold."Lines1,974"Thanks again for clearing out the squatters. I won't forget that." He nods, then looks away.Lines163"Welcome back to our program, Lieutenant Prophet Wilk." He raises his hands and claps slowly for the cameras.Lines687"Welcome, welcome."Lines300"Well? Have you found out about the gap yet?"Lines644"Where are you slinking off to? My safehouse not meeting standards?"Lines3"Wow... an actual liquidity mage..."Lines360"Yo, habibti." Goat Eyes flicks his cigarette.Lines824"You're back." She eyes you warily.Lines863"Yyyes?" Again the heavy, authoritative Azzurri voice comes through.Lines565A barrier of sound between them and the world.Lines1A barrier to keep rats out of the tent.Lines1A beer bottle, gutted and discarded.Lines1A box left like an offering at a shrine.Lines1A circulation mechanism for the smell of stale beer.Lines1A collection of sensible shoes.Lines1A crate of jars.Lines1A deep groove in the couch cushion nearest to the phone.Lines1A delivery of high grip tyres to more adventurous vehicles.Lines1A dour view of pipes, steam leaking from their edges.Lines1A familiar flash of red catches your eye.Lines1A fancy callbox.Lines1A fax machine, on but quiet -- listening for messages from its gäng.Lines1A fine spray of mist coats your eyelashes.Lines1A giant cat lazes on a mountainside, licking blood from its paws.Lines1A giant made of concrete, long defeated.Lines1A giant squid, transmuted into metal.Lines1A glare of light behind you obliterates your reflection's face.Lines1A good target for voyeurs.Lines1A graveyard of hollowed out shells.Lines1A half-finished cup of tea. No steam.Lines1A heart-shaped control panel boasts of six different jet speeds and colours.Lines1A hooded teenager steps back to admire her work.Lines1A house drawn in crayon by either a child or an idiot.Lines1A hypersensitive security system. Hopefully nobody can afford it.Lines1A jazz record with only a series of shapes where the album title should be.Lines1A label. This is apartment #3.Lines1A larder, full of food and well-leafed psychology textbooks.Lines1A large X over an article about extraterrestrial life.Lines1A list of birthdays and addresses, held by a fish-shaped magnet.Lines1A lone housefly buzzes in the fridge, ecstatically trapped.Lines1A lonely break spot.Lines1A lot of cat hair. It must store its treasure here.Lines1A low-tech barrier.Lines1A magazine. Every word is circled.Lines1A metal number is nailed on the door, reading #2.Lines1A mid-range stereo system, set to standby mode.Lines1A motley collection. The title 'Make Yourself Un-unfuckable' jumps out at you.Lines1A mouse trap with a bloody paw in its grip. No sign of the rodent.Lines1A non-lethal current runs through the cage.Lines1A palatial cat run.Lines1A patch of dense greenery below, like an embassy for the forest.Lines1A photograph of a huge white cat.Lines1A platoon of drawers towers above you, rattling as you walk.Lines1A PROPAGANDIST'S STATION.Lines1A rainbow of lipstick kisses covers the page.Lines1A rotary dial phone with a long-forgotten number.Lines1A saucepan half full of black cigarette butts.Lines1A sense of malignant mystery emanates from the fax machine.Lines1A shadow of the mess inside stains the window.Lines1A sharp drop, a broken ankle. You wince.Lines1A SHRINE TO AN OBJECT GOD.Lines1A soapy outline of someone's back.Lines1A sour smell rises, drawing flies and scuttling things.Lines1A sports bag, but no sports gear inside. Weak.Lines1A spray-painted smile. Seems unsure of itself, though.Lines1A stack of glossy, neat files. Too perfect to rifle.Lines1A stagnant smell -- black loam and rotten leaves.Lines1A stethoscope, abandoned mid-procedure.Lines1A sticky note reminds him to pay the cleaners.Lines1A stonemason stops to admire his patterned brickwork around the new sapling.Lines1A tuktuk-sized hole in the broken railing.Lines1A tunnel into darkness.Lines1A very large poster... hiding a crack in the wall.Lines1A very old rota for building maintenance tasks.Lines1A void behind the boards.Lines1A window for poets and photographers.Lines1Abandoned noodles. They smell strongly of gin.Lines1Ads for one of Reno's many interests.Lines1Ahead, the electric hum and rhythmic clatter of an aero-tram station.Lines5All his worldly possessions, protected by rubble.Lines1An ad for a new film. The release date was six months ago.Lines1AN AD FOR THE MEN IN HIGH TOWERS.Lines1An aging telephone, scorched on the hob side.Lines1An array of electronics watches over you.Lines1An assortment of junk mail.Lines1An enthusiastic approach to electrical engineering.Lines1An entire water tank just for one apartment.Lines1An exposed ventilation pipe, big enough for a fool to crawl through.Lines1An interior view over the hall. The cityscape would spoil the aesthetic.Lines1An invitation to protest the demolition of the Palace of Culture.Lines1An obelisk of felt and ribbon.Lines1An old boiler, radiating authority if not heat.Lines1An old TV balanced precariously on a rounded fridge.Lines1An unlocked cabinet.Lines1An unusually quiet child watches through the bars as people shuffle past.Lines1Armour for weak spot. Take it -- yours now.Lines1As you press down on the intercom button, a little light comes on.Lines166Badly sun damaged, you can just make out the station name 'Calle del Partido'.Lines1Bagman gestures wildly on the television screen. This is the ad for the Reality Situation you've seen before.Lines62Beautiful electricity flows through this box.Lines1Beds beneath a canopy, erected less carefully than the one over the equipment.Lines1Beyond fogged glass, the bustle of the city.Lines1Beyond lies a mountainside layered with residential buildings.Lines1Bin collection schedule plastered over with hand-lettered ads.Lines1Blood-red banners for Supreme Leader Nestor.Lines1Blooms nurtured by affection and regular pruning.Lines1Boardgames with pieces set up for three players.Lines1Books of photography. Elegant studies of furniture and the male form.Lines1Both the radio and TV are on, the latter is muted.Lines1BOURGEOIS.Lines1BOURGEOIS.Lines1BOURGEOIS.Lines1Boxes have taken over the place of patients in this office.Lines1Building abandoned, sign vandalised beyond recognition.Lines1Buildings packed so close you could climb from this window to the one opposite.Lines1Bureaucrat of the month awards, gathering dust.Lines1Cabinet doors have been ripped from their hinges.Lines1Children's clothes, a boy and a girl, drying in the sun.Lines1Children's clothes, left out to dry -- now wet, again.Lines1Clothes and bedding becoming one.Lines1Cobblestones shift under your heel.Lines1Conspiracies, pelota, and sometimes, conspiracies about pelota.Lines1Cool place to hang.Lines1Could crack this open.Lines1Cozy.Lines1Crochet cushions.Lines1Curled in on herself, staring at her hands, muttering.Lines1Decommissioned petrol pumps.Lines1Designed to look sporty, but covered in glitter.Lines1Dishes. Recently washed.Lines1Documents with the Renotel dolphin at their head.Lines1Don't look down.Lines1Dried soap bubbles leave rainbow smears.Lines1Drunk enough that if the building collapses, he won't care.Lines1Dumped in the dead of night, hoping to avoid a fine.Lines1Easy climb.Lines1Electrocution waiting to happen.Lines1Empty bottles are all that remain of the drinks bar.Lines1Entire chapters ripped out of the medical textbooks, replaced with handwritten pages.Lines1Eszti and her husband in family photographs.Lines1Etched under the top frame: '#4'.Lines1Eviction. Threat word. Danger.Lines1Excellent view over Party Alley from here. Can make sure everyone's having fun.Lines1Faint smell of coffee.Lines1Familiar empties of schnapps.Lines1Files, redacted by rot.Lines1Fine wine, temptingly open.Lines1Fire hydrant. To drown those candles if they get ideas.Lines1Flickering light. Stirs something.Lines1Flowers bloom from cracked cement, wilt in the pots.Lines1Flyers for shows, rallies... all far in the past.Lines1For use in event of state emergency.Lines1Fresh film, labelled 'evidence'.Lines1Gloom beckons you beyond the rubble.Lines1Glowing, futuristic -- the epitome of Fuck.Lines1Golden victories from a long time past.Lines1Grass stains. Memory of mud.Lines1Hairbrush, moisturiser, and an empty glass.Lines1He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.Lines298He turns his head toward you in slow-motion and barely.Lines281Huge black lenses, gaping and slick.Lines1I once knew a spy.Lines74Imported from the whole of the Developed World.Lines1Incense. The smell reminds you of your childhood in Mircea.Lines1Increasingly negative newspaper articles pertaining to a 'Project AUTONOMÍA'.Lines1It must be an extremely valuable ladder to elicit such measures.Lines1It's never off. PSEUDOPOD has already absorbed a lifetime's worth of daytime TV.Lines1Junkmail from a tuk-tuk repair company.Lines1Labours of love in thread and silk.Lines1Last week's paper.Lines1Like deep sea diver gear for immersions into the black depths of sedation.Lines1Locked steel shutters, a door slammed shut even before your arrival.Lines1Look, around your feet.Lines94Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.Lines83Looks like a good spot for an undisturbed public breakdown.Lines1Looks like some trash managed to escape its bag on the way out.Lines1Lots of imported spices.Lines1Mailboxes: the best way to get to know someone without having to talk to them.Lines1Many tears have been spilled here.Lines1Masonry shifts beneath your feet.Lines1Medicine bottles. Good stuff's gone already.Lines1Metal lungs, straining to exhale as they once did.Lines1Muffled humming. The radio's on low.Lines1Murmurs drift from the apartment balcony above.Lines1Must have spry knees for such a fashionably low bedframe.Lines1Nearly-identical sets of shirts and trousers, ironed and folded.Lines1No encoded messages here. Just dirt.Lines1No fan is a match for the doctor's boiling temperament.Lines1No... soda all over this poor console...Lines1Nobody will see a hand slip into a postbox in this dark corner.Lines1Non-perishable food and toiletries, packed as if for donation.Lines1Non-zero chance the fluids in that sink will one day form new life.Lines1Nothing hidden here -- just an abandoned shoebox full of recipes.Lines1Old chairs thrown into a new purpose.Lines1Old tires scuffed with paint, bumped by docking boats.Lines1On display: a city's tastes in literature and cheap entertainment.Lines1One of the fuses is held together with a coin.Lines1One sticky note says, 'NO WAY'. The others take stabs at ways.Lines1Only one bathroom. The piss line must have been a warzone.Lines1OVERDUE NOTICES, DELINQUENT BILLS... UNTHINKABLE IN THE SUPERBLOC!Lines1Overloaded. Working double-hard.Lines1Pack of cigarettes.Lines1Packages of sticky notes in a sickening variety of colours and sizes.Lines1PAL. A Developed World competitor to Luz's Sonido tech.Lines1Paper pasted over paper over paper over paper.Lines1Party lighting and laughter from inside.Lines1People are talking in low, comfortable tones inside.Lines1People used to have a lot more fun here.Lines1Perhaps a statement piece by a yet to be known artist.Lines1Petrol extracted from Rustam, refined in Agora Minor, imported at high premiums.Lines1Phantom power is set to 'on'.Lines1Placid Wolf languishes atop his plastic cup.Lines38Portofiro stretches up the mountain, a shining mess.Lines1Practically licked clean.Lines1Precarious stacks of 'HOLIDAY CARDS 97, PRE-ORDER'Lines1Propped open to let in fresh air.Lines1PSEUDOPOD, you presume.Lines1Radio's dead -- shame, this would be a great party spot.Lines1Rainboots. They'd look good on us.Lines1Real thick future shit.Lines1Reminds you of childhood visits to the Landau Royal Zoo.Lines1Renovation materials.Lines1Rickety stairs leading downwards, towards the canal.Lines1Right speaker stacked upon left -- a crime against acoustics.Lines1Scrap silk, salvaged from the ruins of Essilk #3.Lines1Scribble time: GÄNG 4EVER. SUK YA DAD.Lines1Scuff marks run across the grain.Lines1Secondhand chairs. Probably picked up from the alley downstairs.Lines1She spends slow afternoons rearranging the postcards under glass.Lines1She taps her heels against the wall, keeping an inaudible beat.Lines1Shelves stacked by a hoarder, then labelled by an obsessive.Lines1Shimmering, diaphanous cloth catches your eye.Lines1Shiny plastic tablecloth, scent of lemon disinfectant.Lines1Short climb to the top.Lines1Shrimp noodles.Lines1Sign can't be older than 4-5 years.Lines1Signed by Cheve Grijalva, a Quisach striker known for his femur-splintering fouls.Lines1Silence. Nobody's home.Lines1Silk pyjamas flutter like wings.Lines1Smell of damp cigarette butts: ash and mould.Lines1Some of these bricks are suspiciously loose...Lines1Somebody tried to climb these.Lines1Somebody tried to unblock the toilet with a riding whip.Lines1Someone braved the stairs just to leave their tag here.Lines1Someone has posted a 'Missed Connections' inquiry up here.Lines1Someone has tried to clean the graffiti here.Lines1Someone has vandalised someone else's vandalism.Lines1Someone risked their neck to arrange cat blankets carefully on this platform.Lines1Someone's been using this AC as a stash.Lines1Someone's left a book here.Lines1Someone's left a book here.Lines1Someone's yanked the receiver right off its cord.Lines1Something at this party triggered the neolithic urge to build a henge.Lines1Something is rooting through the bin in the alley below.Lines1Something reflective glints inside the barrel.Lines1Something shiny in the dark below.Lines1Sometimes, at sunrise, Lucia comes up here for a cigarette.Lines1Spewing hot air. Hasn't been turned off for a long time.Lines1Stacked fast, abandoned halfway.Lines1Static. Someone needs to clamber to the roof, jostle the antennae.Lines1Steel stairs, worn smooth. Something attracts more than just the upper residents.Lines1Strict speed limits imposed on canal traffic.Lines1Sunlight never reaches these apartments.Lines1Supremely easy to swipe.Lines1Swallow you whole.Lines1Teenagers huddle into the stall, trying to be brave. A squeak from the corner sends them fleeing.Lines1Televised boxing's taken off in recent years.Lines1The abandoned cardboard moving boxes remain in the corner of the little apartment.Lines30The beaded curtain neatly splits public and private spheres.Lines1The beam of your flashlight near blinds you with its reflection.Lines1The brightly-coloured cans and cigarette packets seem even more vivid upon your return.Lines28The broken door's still trying to block your path.Lines1THE BUILDING IS A GREAT BEAST, THE WATER ITS LIFE'S BLOOD.Lines1The building noticeboard stands beside a communal area, full of ads and scraps of daily lives.Lines42The bulb burns a white dot into your vision.Lines1The chair screams as it's dragged across the floor.Lines1The chair waits before you, sagging and forlorn.Lines76THE CHILDREN HAVE BEEN LEFT TO FLOUNDER.Lines1The cleaning tuk-tuk with its soap bubbles and secrets seems almost prestigious now.Lines51The clinic's metal door is scabbed with rust and surrounded by graffiti. An official looking sign hangs to the right of it.Lines17The cold dregs of an espresso.Lines1The cuddly dolphin gazes at the wall with the blank stare of a war veteran.Lines1The diagnosis line reads CLOSETED HOMOSEXUAL.Lines1The doctor has probably no need for it.Lines1The door is still bolted shut from the inside.Lines16The faded number on the door reads '#1'.Lines1The familiar Renotel chime hits your ear.Lines47The fan inside the vent whispers.Lines1The fax machine hums faintly. A single sheet sits in the tray, edges curled like a beckoning finger.Lines151The figure in the other sealed, full-body suit gives you a stiff nod.Lines22The glass is begging for a rock.Lines1The glass is remarkably clean, near non-existence.Lines1The glimmering purple keyboard is just as you left it.Lines150The grinning 'Financial Citizen' welcomes you back, his offer still on the table.Lines190The ground is enshrouded by fog.Lines1THE HEAD OF THE TABLE FOR THE HEAD OF STATE.Lines1The hot tub's wrecked. There are cracks in the fibreglass, old water gone viscous. The filter sounds like a drowning goose.Lines62The intoxicated artist was caught halfway through her masterpiece.Lines1The locker is cracked open enough to see inside.Lines1The machine is still soured by the smell of urine. Beverages glow on the inside.Lines23The magic box hums its secret tune. In a dark Novessa sub-basement, your controller answers.Lines1,246The man's eyes are closed. He is completely still.Lines631The menu lists fourteen varieties of schnapps.Lines1The milliner berates her apprentice, voices raised in frustration.Lines1The novel lies where you left it, gathering expensive dust -- 'Blood Type: Hecatomb' by H. S. Lastra.Lines21THE PALACE OF CULTURE CRUMBLES, BUT OUTPOSTS LIVE ON.Lines1The pale, crisp glow of a reading lamp shines from the window.Lines1THE PARTY ORGANISED ITSELF AGAINST THIS BOURGEOIS CONSTRUCT.Lines1The party started inside, continued out here.Lines1The remnants of industry.Lines1THE RESULT OF PRIVATISED WASTE COLLECTION.Lines1The satchel by the door is empty, but the rain boots haven't moved.Lines150The secluded booth, scene of countless intelligence trysts.Lines1The sleek metal callbox stands guard.Lines162The slogan's a poorly-aged relic of Project AUTONOMÍA.Lines1The soft glint of light on plastic.Lines1The soft sizzle of neon cottons your ears as you pass underneath.Lines1The stall remains as haphazard as ever, its payment bucket near empty.Lines355The stereo is right where you left it.Lines151The toilet is still hung on the wall above the bar, a place of great honour -- a reminder of the Ceramic Panic of 83.Lines36The toilet seat is up.Lines1The toothy likeness of Sweet Nestor sneers at you from the stucco wall.Lines1The tram stop's once-ornate staircase now just looks wobbly.Lines1The tree has fulfilled its task. Now time for you to fulfill yours.Lines49The trio goes silent at your return.Lines127The turnstiles don't budge; the station's shut for 'improvements'.Lines1The TV exhales warm air from vents at its back.Lines1The two teenage girls refuse to look at you.Lines659The wall is slightly discoloured where the Jefa Red & Black poster once was.Lines60The wind carries their faint, sweet smell.Lines1The window is fogged from the inside.Lines1THERE ARE NO KINGS IN PORTOFIRO.Lines1There is always a a darkness to doctor's offices, a certain worldly detachment.Lines1There is no response, just the sound of your own breath against cool plastic.Lines325There's a signed Ultra Violeta record on the turntable.Lines1These floor cups are full of... piss.Lines1They never got around to putting up the new wallpaper.Lines1This cat's furniture is nicer than yours.Lines1This elevator goes straight to the roof.Lines1This is the door you came in from. Muffled voices rise from the shop below.Lines1This lock looks pickable.Lines1This must be the collapsed awning over the main entrance.Lines1This tuk-tuk has been parked for some time.Lines1This was originally a photo developing lab, but you may twist it to suit your needs.Lines1Three postboxes, all of them missing the occupant's names.Lines1Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.Lines60Tickets for a losing match, torn to shreds.Lines1Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.Lines102Tiny prison bars.Lines1Tiny rusted switches, their labels worn off.Lines1Too small for a guard dog.Lines1Tools. Weapons. Watch out.Lines1Two bottles, one glass.Lines1Two plants reach for each other. They've almost made it.Lines1Two species of ivy crawl over the railing -- a joint invasion.Lines1Ultra Violeta remains frozen mid-song, trapped within the shimmering projection. Her music plays somewhere behind you.Lines81Unused maintenance supplies, overseeing the result of their neglect.Lines1Upholstery slouches against the wall, decomposing.Lines1Vents release steam from pipes below the street.Lines1Very old typewriter. Must keep it for nostalgia.Lines1We should have a painting of us like this.Lines1Weeks' worth of mail.Lines1Wine sediment clings to the bottom. Reminds you of dry blood.Lines1With no one to haul it upstairs, the trash rots down here.Lines1Word puzzles, filled in two sets of handwriting.Lines1Yarn connects various places with pictures of specific animals.Lines1You approach your double. A faint line of drool darkens the sheet.Lines586You can see the ruins of Essilk from here.Lines1You can see your reflection in the blade... Looks sharp.Lines1You can still see the eroded buckles of the massive stone shoe.Lines1You can't tell whether she's closing her eyes or opening them.Lines1You catch a glimpse of your face, unaware and unmasked. Then it's gone.Lines1You catch sight of Sweet Nestor's moustache on crumpled fabric.Lines1You could probably make these yourself if they were useful or nice.Lines1You fight the urge to shake the cocktail mixer.Lines1You have already engaged in model train repair and improvised weapon manufacture here. There is nothing else to do at the workbench.Lines226You have arrived at Eszti's doorstep.Lines81You hear a steady dripping from inside the fridge.Lines1You might survive the fall from this height.Lines1You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.Lines222You return to one of the city's ancient benches. It welcomes you.Lines39You return to the boiler.Lines140You return to the collapsing pneumatic system.Lines68You return to the desk. Everything is right where you left it, including the pack of Suprema 100s.Lines420You return to the door of the little houseboat.Lines99You return to the folded pants.Lines50You return to the framed photographs.Lines48You return to the graffiti wall.Lines76You return to the hole.Lines108You return to the postbox.Lines77You return to the rack.Lines92You return to the residents' list.Lines29You return to the shrine under the stairs.Lines66You return to the staircase.Lines82You return to the wasteland.Lines179You scan the noticeboards for names you recognise -- none stand out.Lines1You stare up at the high filing cabinet.Lines63You step up to the terminal again.Lines97You sway on your feet in time with the bobbing boat.Lines1You're being watched -- but not like that.Lines1Your faint reflection stares back at you from the neighboring building's skylight.Lines59Your odds of winning this lotto are roughly 0.000658%.Lines1Field notesContributeReport a mistake
