A ruined sofa with a sad story to tell.

A ruined sofa with a sad story to tell.

The air hums. This is a spy's death.

No regular crime scene, not just motive and victim -- an echo of fairytale, tracings of black magic. Everything glows in the dark.

That's a lot of blood...

Too much.

Update: Asset TAXMAN. Was: UNKNOWN. Now: ZEROED OUT.

What happened here?

Multiple assailants, going by the footprints. A brief struggle. Then the inevitable.

Askew on nearby shelves, a stereo system, blinking on standby. They used that to drown out the noise.

The stereo system is facing away from the couch. Think about this suboptimal room layout for a moment -- it's much easier than looking at the blood.

So he put up a fight. Good.

At the start, at least. This was not a clean hit.

Hopefully he went out riding the high white hörse. All the way to heaven.

You imagine him getting his last licks in, dying roaring, slower than they betted on, all teeth and fury and cunts.

Tempo had never begged for anything in his life. The words felt unnatural, covered in blood and spit, the coke long-faded, an odd fit for his last: 'Stop. Please. I don't want to die.'

They didn't even bother to clean it up.

The aftermath was the point. This is a warning.

A slow, cold needle to your soul.

When did they get him?

The blood is curdled and cracked, the colour of old brick. A week ago, maybe more.

PSEUDOPOD and Tempo... why? (Conclude.)

The way espionage crises always go. People collide in slow motion, gripping the outer edges, half-blind. Bodies mount. Telephones ring.

ALL TREATIES ARE HEREBY DENOUNCED. PREPARE FOR OPEN WAR.

I should've done better by Tempo. And by PSEUDOPOD.

Mere minutes into the match and the away crowd are silenced by a stark scoreboard:

ENEMIES: 2. CASCADE: 0.

For now.

A jagged mouth pressed against phone receiver: 'It's CASCADE or nothing! And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

I'm definitely being set up. Maybe twice over.

I plan to collide at full fucking speed.

This is a message in itself, Tempo. I hear you.

There's no body. Maybe he's still alive somewhere...

No hope. Far too much blood.

What are the death rites for a departed asset?

Traditionally a stiff drink followed by a denial they ever existed.

Gäng's very troubled. The secret feds darked out our friend.