"Hard to believe, but it seems the gap is widening, even as we speak!"

"Hard to believe, but it seems the gap is widening, even as we speak!"

This man matches the description of 'Frederik' given by Oskar Metamoto, the EMTERR negotiator.

Is it possible this mysterious gap he keeps going on about is connected to the Grand Lich's imminent arrival?

"Uuuuhh... uuuhhh... uhhhhhhh."

Look over his shoulder to find the Miracle Line identifier.

The young man is all over that phone. You won't be able to see the serial number until he leaves.

"Hey! Are you going to be much longer?"

No response. He's too deep in his own world.

"Oh my god... you can't do that to me," he huddles closer to the phone, and whispers: "But you really, really should."

A prisoner of his own desire.

A bubble just waiting to be burst.

"There are some older gentlemen who'd like to use the phone."

He leans away from you, resting his forehead against the metal shell.

"I asked you politely once. Now, kindly wait your fucking turn!"

Blood rush. Boiling. Fist clench.

"Tell me that kind of language is unacceptable," he says to the phone, not you. "It's the influence of... the gap. I hardly recognise myself anymore."

There. The little mental tickle -- that's your brain telling you you're close to something important.

Hurt him.

More! Harder! Again!

"Ahhh! I'm under assault! If this is it... tell them... tell them it was in the line of duty."

If it weren't for the handset he's clutching you would've laid him right out.

In this man's mental-life, physical violence is what happens to other people.

"What's this 'mysterious gap' you keep going on about?"

"She knows about the gap." A sharp intake of breath. "But how?"

Hatred. Contempt.

But also attention. He won't brush you off so easily now.

"Nothing, nothing." He returns to the receiver. "I just ably defeated some sort of cocaine wampyr. Nothing compared to the mysterious gap..."

"Now, where were we..."

"I've got to go," he whispers. "I'll call you again when it's safe."

THE ENEMY FLEES FROM THE POST-HISTORICAL DUSTBIN.

With that, the man gently sets the handset back in its cradle and slinks off into the city.

Alternative wording

With that, the man gently sets the handset back in its cradle and slinks off into the night.

At last, now you can use the phone.

Now's your chance to see what this 'Miracle Line' is all about.

"Nothing, nothing." He returns to the receiver. "I just ably defeated some sort of amphetamine goblin. Nothing compared to the mysterious gap..."

"Nothing, nothing." He returns to the receiver. "I just ably defeated some sort of ether phantom. Nothing compared to the mysterious gap..."

"Nothing, nothing." He returns to the receiver. "I just ably defeated some sort of tranquilised gutter wight. Nothing compared to the mysterious gap..."

"Nothing, nothing." He returns to the receiver. "I just ably defeated one of the local lumpenprole. Nothing compared to the mysterious gap..."

Superiority. Contempt.

COWED BY THE LIQUID ENEMY. YOU'VE BROUGHT DISCREDIT TO THE PEOPLE'S SPIES.

But also attention. He won't brush you off so easily now.

"Nothing, nothing," he says into the receiver. "It seems I'm being followed by some kind of cocaine wampyr. But they know better than to approach."

"Nothing, nothing," he says into the receiver. "It seems I'm being followed by some kind of amphetamine goblin. But they know better than to approach."

"Nothing, nothing," he says into the receiver. "It seems I'm being followed by some kind of ether phantom. But they know better than to approach."

"Nothing, nothing," he says into the receiver. "It seems I'm being followed by some kind of tranquilised gutter wight. But they know better than to approach."

"Nothing, nothing," he says into the receiver. "It seems I'm being followed by one of the local lumpenprole. But they know better than to approach."

Superiority. Contempt.

"I have some questions for you."

"Questions?! You violate my space and think I have time for questions! My job concerns the fates of nations. This is not a drill!"

Fear. Hatred. Good.

He won't brush you aside so easily now.

"I'm sorry," he says into the receiver. "I've attracted the attention of some sort of cocaine wampyr. If this mysterious gap doesn't kill me, one of these violent locals will..."

"I'm sorry," he says into the receiver. "I've attracted the attention of some sort of amphetamine goblin. If this mysterious gap doesn't kill me, one of these violent locals will..."

"I'm sorry," he says into the receiver. "I've attracted the attention of some sort of ether phantom. If this mysterious gap doesn't kill me, one of these violent locals will..."

"I'm sorry," he says into the receiver. "I've attracted the attention of some sort of tranquilised gutter wight. If this mysterious gap doesn't kill me, one of these violent locals will..."

"I'm sorry," he says into the receiver. "I've attracted the attention of one of the lumpenprole. If this mysterious gap doesn't kill me, one of those violent locals will..."

"Time's up, other people need to use the phone."

"Time's up? You don't know anything about time. My job concerns the fates of nations. This is not a drill!"

"Sorry -- that was a lot harder than I meant."

"Than you meant? You're a lunatic! Do you know who I work for? My job concerns the fates of nations. This is not a drill!"

No. Not hurt. More... graze?

Your approach is laughably unbalanced. See how he deflects you with a flurry of maladroit gestures.

"Agghhh! Help!"

"I just want to ask you some questions!"

"Questions?! Do I look like a man who has time for questions?"

"I need to use that phone."

"Oh you'd like to make a call? Good for you. Learn some fucking manners!"

Don't, just watch and listen.

He can barely keep still -- visibly shaking, but also contorting himself into bizarre body-knots as he talks.

The physical body often telegraphs the feelings that trouble the insides.

Anxious disposition. Cold sweat. Likely stomach problems. It's all there...

You've seen yourself like this before.

When?

In the mirror. In the bathroom.

Hold on, what bathroom?

There have been several, across multiple timezones.

He seems fine to me.

"Its dimensions, totally unknown -- unknowable, even! -- and yet they demand that I plan around it..."

He drops his voice to a whisper. Seemingly aware of your presence. He wheels around and faces you.

"The fuck are you doing? Are you stalking me?"

"You may want to slow down, go a little easier on yourself."

"Slow down? Do I look like a man who can slow down to you?"

Right. He's having a nervous breakdown.

This 'mysterious gap' may be connected to the Grand Lich's arrival. You should investigate.

"This is a private phone call. Please excuse yourself," he says, turning away to whisper into the receiver.

A pained intensity in his lowered voice that strains his vocal chords.

"I saw her talking to those old pilots earlier. They must have sent her to listen in," he sneers.

"Do I want her to watch?" He whispers. "Oh... maybe, in theory... she does have a certain powerful aspect to her. Hhhhh... perhaps..."

"Do I want her to watch?" He whispers. "Oh... maybe, in theory, but... you should see the way she's dressed. She's wearing some sort of... pelota mascot head. Highly disturbing."

"Do I want her to watch?" He whispers. "Oh... maybe, in theory, but... you should see her. She's wearing some sort of fake facial hair, as though I couldn't tell..."

"Do I want her to watch?" He whispers. "Oh... maybe, in theory, but... you should see the way she's dressed. She's dressed like some kind of teenager, not at all appropriate for her age."

"Do I want her to watch?" He whispers. "Oh... maybe, in theory, but... you should see the way she's dressed. Her coat, it's see-through like a grocery bag."

"Do I want her to watch?" He whispers. "Oh... maybe, in theory, but... you should see the way she's dressed. She looks like an encyclopaedia entry for 'low net-worth'."

"I'm surrounded by enemies. I think those old pilots sent her to listen in," he sneers.

Old pilots? He must be referring to the table of nattering old men you passed on the way here.

UNACCEPTABLE. THE PEOPLE'S REPRESENTATIVE WON'T BE OBSTRUCTED.

This rocket is close to lift off. No room for a co-pilot in that command capsule.

"You know so much, and I so little. The power differential is grotesque. Highly problematic... don't change it."

This man can't actually be employed, surely?

Like it or not, this is indeed one of the men allowed to decide what happens in the world.

"I'm your faithful dog. I know nothing, I question less..."

Beneath the pleated folds of his trousers stirs something fleshy and horrible.

For his services at this payphone he is paid nothing -- and yet, he remains number one employee of the month, every month.

Whether or not he's employed, he's certainly occupied.

It's like a tram crash. I can't look away.

What a poor, wretched soul.

"I need to speak with Duchess. Hurry it up."

He leans away from you, resting his forehead against the metal shell.

"Hey, I'm right here."

He whirls around, eyes ablaze with indignation.

Tap him on the shoulder.

With a jolt and a sharp glance, the young man pulls his shoulder away.

Tap him on the shoulder again.

He jerks his shoulder away, with more venom than before.

"Hey! The lady at the bazaar said all the kids dress like this."

He eyes you over his shoulder.

"Hey! This thing is meant to be see-through."

"Hey! I thought all your rich foreigners went for Recreación."

"Hey! Quit talking shit about my clothes."

Make an assessment of the phoneline hog.

Perversion, Developed World variety. But what sort?

"Please... I need to feel like my position's in jeopardy..."

Consider his suit.

Wool de Coulanges, super 130. Looks more expensive than it feels.

I should upgrade my professional wardrobe.

The man wedges his index finger between his tight collar and neck.

His only source of relief is the sweat seeping into the fabric of his wind-whipped collar.

The old pilot was correct: This man works for EMTERR.

"I need to know that if I don't pull this off... billions of sol worth of international loans and investments may be at risk..."

"Tell me you'll report me to Human Capital if I displease our counterparties," he whispers into the receiver.

There can be no doubt: this is the 'junior negotiator' Oskar Metamoto mentioned.

I need to find out what he knows about these 'secret treaties'.

Assuming you can get him off the phone.

Looks like he's about to pop.

Stop. Scent of prey. Pupils dilate.

'Human Capital'. Just what I'm looking for.

Enemy. Prey. Vile.

Now if you could just get his attention.

"Hhhhhhhh... uh oh, I think I forgot someone's title..."

Perhaps he can direct me.

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Put all the pieces together, and the conclusion is obvious: This man works for EMTERR.

Menswear makes no sense to me.

It makes no sense to most men either.

Consider his body.

Lanky, malnourished, his physical form is an object of abuse and neglect in equal measure.

What has he abused?

His lungs and liver foremost. You can tell by his wan colour.

He is all limbs, an unloved body at home only in the most ergonomic of chairs.

Pale, moist, clammy. Like a deformed frog plucked from the canal there.

What has he neglected?

His muscles and heart, evident in his poor posture and shallow breathing.

Consider his soul.

What comes to mind is a handkerchief buffeted on a night-wind, eternally in retreat from itself.

Poor bastard.

On the contrary: He's been making 250K a year since he was 22. Plus benefits.

Already set on life's glide path, and all it cost him was his humanity.

Where do these people come from?

From the most expensive private universities in the world. They churn them out by the barrel.

What does it add up to? (Proceed.)

Turning, turning...

No revelation is at hand. The rough beast continues his mad gyrations.

"Sooooo... cloooose."

"Yes-yes! Take it away from me... then bring it back... then take it away again." He squeals with delight.

Look away.

For the moment, he remains an erotic mystery.

Keep watching.

Keep watching, but only a little.

Turning, turning, but only a little...

I can't keep doing this. (Stop watching.)

It would be a lot easier to form a coherent image of this man if it weren't for his... constant gyrations.

The slow rhythm is hypnotic, obliterating all other possible observations about his person.

"Tell me I'm not meeting your expectations," he pants. "Tell me I'm a worm before the mystery of the gap."

"I want to talk to you about these 'secret treaties' I'm hearing about."

He whirls around and drops his voice to a hiss.

"If you know about those then you should also know to keep your fucking voice down."

"'Matters of Mass Culture', I want to hear about them."

"Keep your voice down," he hisses. "If word gets around, it could unravel everything..."

He may be delusional, but he's not attempting to deceive. He believes every word.

"Imagine the consumer," he gestures derisively to the world, "hears that we're thinking of letting them buy Luzian goods legally! No more Culture Blockade! Do you understand how badly they want this shit?!"

"So the Luzians want the Culture Blockade down, why?"

"Look at this city! You see what happens when the Blockade fails -- absolute market dominance by the Ministry of Mass Culture."

"The Luzians have the most desirable products in every market they've hit -- at the expense of all else. I'm talking about the absolute collapse of the native industrial base, the total erosion of consumer choice!"

The bazaar full of genuine Luzian tech -- gadgets outnumbering people, their bodies crawling with fresh devices... yes...

"The consumers have made their choice. Their subconscious longs for the Final Society."

"Easy for you to be glib about. You haven't seen the consumer spending forecasts I have... apocalyptic."

REGULATE THEM STRAIGHT TO THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES AND THE MATTER WILL NOT ARISE.

"Even the middle-aged female demographic has succumbed... I must redouble my efforts."

"Did you hear?" He lowers his voice, hand around the receiver. "Not my type at all."

"I quite like Ultra Violeta."

"She's pitiful... sad... all frail like a little baby songbird. Not my type at all."

"The collectible cups are pretty neat, look." (Show him.)

His eyes widen as he takes in your prize.

"A global flood of techno-fascist propaganda..."

"And I am the dam holding it back! Me!" He leans back for you to behold him. "So you see why I need to be in top condition."

"What does EMTERR expect to get from this deal?"

"If they're to be believed... an end to the Reunión campaigns... No more military adventures against former Luzian territories."

"Why's EMTERR so worked up over some old colonies?"

"Do you even comprehend what Reunión represents? The end of the rules-based order! The return of centuries of barbarism, the likes of which humanity isn't ready for!"

Especially him.

"A disaster. There have to be rules to make sure everyone stays safe and has a good time."

"Exactly! And if international investors don't feel safe, how can we possibly guarantee market liquidity?"

"Latour-Woolgar, the whole post-historical framework, it's teetering! Am I the only one who feels it?" He lowers his voice into the phone: "Hold me."

"In that case, the people can look to the Party to set them on the correct path."

"A path to what exactly? Luz has former territories in the People's Republics too! The Reunión won't be stopped by your shrill pamphlets!"

A GROSS UNDERESTIMATION OF THE PEOPLE'S ARSENAL. THERE ARE STILL THOUSANDS OF LANDMINES BURIED FROM THE LAST WARS.

"I'm ready for it, Frederik. Keep singing that sweet techno terror."

"Aah! What, you think this is funny? You think you'll be the one driving the tank? No!" He stamps his pitiful foot. "You're the ground, lady. The ground."

It would be an honour to be the ground beneath a Luzian L-56. Their tracks print the initials of their most decorated generals.

"Do you really think the Luzians are willing to give up their old territories, over some pop music and TV shows?"

"Who knows! Maybe it's all a ploy, maybe we're being played. But if there's a chance -- I must take the risk."

"So what's stopping these treaties from being signed right now?"

"Nothing! Only the gap, which is also nothing! Enough questions -- Shhhh!"

"Huh?"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

Warm spittle flecks your cheek. It's a good thing you're wearing glasses.

Kill this little shit.

Warm spittle flecks the outside of your oversized mascot head. It's a good thing you're protected.

Warm spittle flecks the outside of your plastic viewport. It's a good thing you're protected.

Warm spittle flecks your bare cheek. A little bit gets in your eye.

"Shhhhhhh!!"

"What?"

"You're being very difficult."

"Whatever, forget it."

"That's more like it."

"And the mysterious gap, that's part of it too?"

"The gap isn't 'part' of anything -- it's the absence of everything! All encompassing! Now -- Shhhh!"

"Okay, I get it." (Go back.)

"Understand -- I am not exaggerating when I say I may be all that's standing between this shit-crusted rock and the carrier groups of the Luzian empire."

"One false word, one ill-timed leak, and this is all done for! Done!" He turns his back to you once more.

"I'll stop asking for now." (Go back.)

"Good! I have enough to keep track of as it is."

"I have more questions about the secret treaties."

"You're still leaking! Shhh!"

"I'm looking for a colleague who may've been using this phone. Glasses, middle aged. Brown coat."

Alternative wording

"I'm looking for a colleague who may've been using this phone. An import agent, works in socks."

"She thinks I work with the mouth-breathers in the Trade office." He mutters into the receiver. "In this suit. Unbelievable."

"Yes, I saw your colleague, hanging utterly deflated from this very payphone. It was despicable."