You find yourself staring at the dummy once more.

You find yourself staring at the dummy once more.

What is it doing here?

The dummy seems posed with some kind of intention.

Occupying the space of another.

Whose room is this?

Clues are spread out in all directions with you at the centre. Space exploration memorabilia, cotton jackets on hooks, old radios...

Cosy and unkempt. Not like the impersonal cleanliness of the doctor's clinic below.

Dust gathers on everything. This place has been preserved exactly as it was once left -- months or even years ago.

Dr. Hugo does not come in here often. Only the dummy sleeps here now.

The room is left vacant most of the time. Only the dummy sleeps here now.

Look at in situ.

The dummy is surrounded by the delicate shrapnel of a previous life. Space exploration memorabilia, cotton jackets on hooks, old radios...

Everything’s exactly as Karolina left it.

Yet, she is not here. Instead, in her place, there is a...

Surrogate.

The manifestation of a father's tragedy.

Tableau to the lost.

A cavity filled with something even more hollow.

Fellow operant.

Functional, but dead inside.

Actually, it could help you get a cricket in Gonza's office without him realising, let you eavesdrop on his calls...

He wouldn't notice?

While Gonza is paranoid, his attention swoops to all the wrong places. He'd never suspect sabotage like this.

So I just put it inside the dummy?

Exactly. You'd just need to find an opening -- like its mouth.

Medical dummy. Nothing more.

Stored away out of sight.

You're as in denial as the doctor is.

Dr. Hugo said this is his daughter's room.

Does the dummy belong here?

Technically, it belongs to this 'Dr. Gonza'. But perhaps the question is where would it bring the most happiness?

Who deserves to have the dummy as part of their gäng?

CLAIM IT AS STATE PROPERTY. TAKE IT IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE.

Gonza should have it. It's his, after all.

He must have some rights as the original owner.

Surely the idea of that man having any rights left is obscene.

Dr. Hugo clearly needs it.

A man without his daughter is a man without his soul.

You could just tell Gonza that you couldn't find it...

It's not like he's in any state to fact-check you.

A coping mechanism of some sort? A memento to something sorely lost... ?

Me. I want it.

It may not be a particularly useful member of your crew. But at least you'll have a companion, at last.

IT IS FOR EVERYONE. A PERSON OF THE PEOPLE.

Finders keepers.

I can't decide.

Then the dummy shall sit here until you figure out what to do with it.

Technically, it belongs to Dr. Gonza. But perhaps the question is where would it bring the most happiness?

It has been placed carefully. Some amount of love has gone into it.

It means something to Dr Hugo -- perhaps a lot. He would be sad to see it go.

It means something -- perhaps a lot -- to whoever put it here. They would be sad to see it go.

Something else. (Go back.)

The dummy continues to hold its pose, undisturbed.

Look at the tag.

Printed words: 'PROPERTY OF DR. GONZA.' And scribbled right under: 'To myself, for when I'm not myself.'

Gonza's so-called 'personal effects', without a doubt.

Time to reunite you with your owner.

The dummy sits still, head in a comfortable enough position.

It looks at home here. Almost reluctant to leave.

You could return it to Gonza with a cricket inside. That'd allow you to listen in on his calls.

He wouldn't notice?

While Gonza is paranoid, his attention swoops to all the wrong places. He'd never suspect sabotage like this.

So I just need to find an opening?

Exactly. Like its mouth...

Man's a genius.

Museum or crime scene -- history won't know what to do with him.

He's sicker than I ever thought.

Why did Dr. Hugo have a dummy that belongs to Gonza?

The dummy just looks past you, its plastic lips frozen mid-thought.

Like it heard the question. Like it's thinking about it.

Why was a dummy that belongs to Gonza in that houseboat?

Why did Dr. Hugo have a dummy that belongs to someone called Gonza?

Who is Dr. Gonza?

One of the local doctors, perhaps.

Why would a dummy belonging to Gonza be here?

'Gonza'? Didn't Dr. Hugo mention him?

With a noticeable distaste. This might explain why.

Who?

BEHOLD: ULTIMATE SOVEREIGNTY! GONZA'S REPUBLIC OF HIMSELF.

Examine the dummy closely.

It stares at you, unmoving.

Wait to see if it will move.

Minutes pass. Specks of dust gather on your shoulders. Your joints begin to ache. The dummy doesn't move.

Must be stiff, holding a position that long.

Minutes pass. The houseboat gently sways. Specks of dust gather on the objects around you. Your joints begin to ache. The dummy doesn't move.

Consider its face.

A silicon oval, unframed. Shadows reveal the protrusions of nose, eyelids, mouth -- before you lies something that resembles a human face.

But whose?

Maybe that's what Melita looks like.

You can almost hear her speaking...

'What is it now, CASCADE?'. The lips of the dummy remain still, and yet, the voice continues. 'Why am I naked, CASCADE?'.

Well, aren't you going to answer?

You're a medical dummy now, Melita. It doesn't come with clothes.

'Are you going to touch me, CASCADE?' asks the dummy in your controller's voice. It still hasn't moved, nor have you.

Touch her.

Hard, compressible, cold -- you feel the layered texture of a non-person. The fantasy is broken. You draw your hand back, disappointed.

I really have lost it.

Melita -- the real one -- would agree. Maybe you should stop staring at the dummy now.

Just a little longer.

The dummy stares at you. You stare at the dummy. Minutes pass in eerie silence.

This is doing you no good. A face conveys the feelings of the person controlling it. Without that, it is just tissue and bone and cartilage. A parament devoid of meaning and love.

But the faces that move don't give me love either.

Can a face embody love? It can show laughter and disgust and surprise. But love is a feeling, not an expression -- it may struggle to fit within the lines and folds to which you devote so much.

Before you blame others for not showing you what you want, make sure you are looking in the right place.

You are an operant, CASCADE. You have not been trained to look for love.

Now, see, the dummy's face is unchanged. Despite that, somehow, it has changed you.

Sure, I'm done.

The dummy's face is unchanged. Despite that, somehow, it has changed you.

Okay, I'm out.

Absolutely not.

But the moment slips away. The lips of the dummy remain still.

Probably Gonza's own face. Kinda thing he would do.

A mirror made flesh. Or at least, the closest manmade material to it.

One side withers while the other remains the same -- into it, he pours the remainder of his own life.

Is it... me?

The template before you is just that -- a template. But as you stare at the dummy, you find you are able to transfer your own features onto it.

Suddenly, you see a perfect copy of yourself. Except it's naked, not breathing, and has nothing behind its eyes.

Are you alive?

There is no response from the other-you. She just stares and stares.

How simple your life must be.

She doesn't acknowledge the statement. She doesn't need to, such are the demands upon the other-you -- she can just sit there doing nothing without end.

Wanna switch places?

Not a single movement in response.

Take that as a no.

Blink. (Stop this.)

A shutter comes down on the world. When it reappears, you are stood once again in front of a blank dummy, absent of you.

The universe is back in its place, but something feels different -- something you can't see.

No one can.

Karolina? That would explain why Dr. Hugo held onto it.

The dummy has the same dimensions as a young, impressionable girl. It is without life or a soul, but humans have a preference for filling blank spaces with the familiar.

An impression of her to fill the absence.

No one. It's just a standard medical dummy.

If that is true, there was likely an original model, a person, whose face was used as the template for the one looking back at you, completely still.

Enough. (Go back.)

You turn away from the face, readjusting your eyes.

That's enough inspecting. (Go back.)

You pull focus. The dummy continues to stare vacantly at the same spot.

Take the dummy.

The empty bed is sadder than when it was occupied, somehow.

Let the thing be. [Leave.]

You let the dummy rest comfortably on the bed.

The thing in the bed stares with vacant intensity. Slowly, details emerge: a moulded jawline, curved torso, and multi-jointed limbs.

Positioned with uncanny tenderness.

Thankful it can't see my face.

You can be assured of that.

Would probably snatch it and wear it as its own.

What is that?

A medical dummy, tucked up inside the bed, propped up against the pillows. A tag dangles from its wrist.

Its expression, frozen in time -- helpless, but not distressed.

PVC skeleton with silicon skin overlay. Flexible polymer joints. Compressible chest plate. Designed to endure repeated trauma.

Back away. [Leave.]

The thing on the bed keeps on gazing.