Think, operant. If you were you, what would you get up to?

Think, operant. If you were you, what would you get up to?

Violent rampage across the district. Eating apartments, tuk-tuks.

He is probably hungry after his inanimate phase. But -- he is you. Where would you go?

Where would I go, if I were me?

You close your eyes. The plane of shapes and colours rises in front of you -- the psycho-geography of Portofiro.

Look for PSEUDOPOD.

The city hums around you, pink and pulsing with the memory. You search for your own feel, rhythm, thoughts...

You catch the shadow of yourself, moving. Confused and scared, but you. Focus.

Listen.

"But I'm sure I've been here before. Don't you recognise me?"

In the background you can hear the sound of machinery and men hurling masculine insults at each other as cargo is hauled from ship to shore.

The boatman folds his arms and regards your double cautiously. He knows something is wrong, but not what.

He hesitates, perhaps catching the sensation of you in his mind.

Stay right there!

You're retracing your steps.

He's at the docks. Got it.

A cargo boat brushes gently against the canal. The smell of fuel oil hangs heavy in the air.

PSEUDOPOD! Where are you?

You close your eyes and a plane of shapes and colours appears in front of you...

Where are you, little man?

The city hums around you. A tunnel appears. You search it for signs of your own feel, rhythm, thoughts...

But when you emerge at the other end, there is nothing. You have no idea where your double is.

I'll find me the old-fashioned way. [Leave]

The alleyways and canals of Quisach call to you. Time to answer.

Probably find a nice spot to off myself.

Perhaps the logical response to suddenly waking up as a flesh-form photocopy. But -- he is you. Where would you go?

Probably just getting a run in.

The likelihood of muscle atrophied cannot be ignored. But -- he is you. Where would you go?