There is no answer.

There is no answer.

You can almost hear the phone ringing throughout Bagman's studio, reverberating off the empty plastic cups and audio equipment.

The Reality Situation is gone. It only exists in the airwaves now.

"Hello, hello and welcome, as always, to the Reality Situation. What's your name and where are you calling from?"

"A joke, obviously. This show would never solicit personal information from you, unlike the government, priests, and talking animals in your dreams. Remember, people - you don't have to answer."

"The Animal Zone has been used by the Weeping Eye as a pop-up torture room."

"The Animal Zone has long been compromised, comrade -- I had an undercover Bag Mongoose keeping watch all along. They have non-retractable claws."

"What do you know about secret jails?"

"There is only one secret jail, comrades, and we are in it."

"No, I meant secret jails run by EMTERR in Portofiro."

"There are many secret jails, but in the end there is truly only one secret jail." He repeats obstinately. "And we are in it, comrades."

"What else?"

"Everything is jail, got it."

"You've taken the first step on a very long mental journey."

You glance upwards, as though expecting to see a cage fall down around you. One doesn't -- at least not visibly.

"How big is the jail? And why can't I see the walls?"

"Because, comrades: The walls have been painted over to look like what they're not."

Huh? That does not solve the dilemma of the unseen cage.

"I'm lost."

"We are all lost, I'm afraid. Trapped inside a brutal siege with no means of escape."

"I knew it! It was a simulation!"

"And yet the pain is all too real. If we are able to break out of Reality's siege, then anything may be possible..."

"This changes nothing. Everything we do always amounts to zero."

"But maybe it doesn't have to! If we are able to break out of Reality's siege, then anything may be possible..."

"Is there any way to figure out how big it is?"

"Theoretically, it could be calculated based on the temperature difference between Dream of Rustam and neighbouring states, Rustam being where most of the backup discs are kept."

"But, if I had to guess... I would estimate the whole thing is only about seventy-five to one hundred million pages of information. Comparatively minuscule."

Let him continue.

"Ever heard about an unmoored houseboat drifting around Portofiro?"

"Indeed! Anyone still labouring under the illusion that this is a free city is encouraged to take a swim or a boat out to the 3.3km mark, where that vessel orbits, and you'll see exactly how 'free' we are."

"It's a patrol boat, in short. If I had to guess, I would say it's making sure no one ventures out into the unrendered areas where the rehearsals for Reality happen."

"So what, after that you think the world just ends?"

"Impossible to say. We're so deeply immersed in this illusion that we cannot even imagine life outside it."

"Reports of flashing lights upon the vessel would appear to confirm this hypothesis."

"Rehearsals?"

"Hrrm. Makes sense."

"Tell me about the dolphin-human hybrids."

"Dead, mostly. Suicide."

Does that make us the last of a once-proud hybrid race?

"What the so-called 'scientists' failed to take into account was that, apparently, the human parts of their brains simply couldn't deal with the dolphin's more primal urges."

"A tragedy. All mammals mourn their loss."

"The survivors have a tank at the bottom of Nestor's old silo. Though, who knows how many remain..."

You didn't see anything resembling a 'tank' down there, unless there are sub-levels yet to uncover...

"This is unbelievably grotesque."

"Sounds like it all worked out for the best then."

"You stole a red disc from me. I need it back."

A weighted silence follows your words, brief, but unmistakable.

"Ah. So this is how our current reality unfolds... I was wondering when you'd call."

"We don't know each other."

"Oh, Ms. Wilk. You must not remember. I cannot fault you for that."

A pause.

"If you want to see me, head across the roofs of the Housing Campaign. No guests, no surprises. Salute." The line goes dead.

"When who would call?"

"You, Ms. Wilk."

"Someone attacked me and left a paper bag behind."

"You've been visited by one of the bold partisans of the real! I hope you're wearing the bag -- it's the only way to stay safe."

"Of course. I'm no fool."

"Clearly not. This is excellent news. We may have much to discuss."

"So why did your 'partisan' attack me?"

"First lesson of war: We are always under attack. The sooner you accept it, the better."

A crumb of truth, which gathers mass as it rolls downhill, until it becomes a teeming ball of confusion and paranoia.

"Should I be?"

"Of course! Without it you're fully exposed to the enemy, naked against their attacks. Don't become a willing vector of Reality."

"I'm not wearing your dumb bag. It's ridiculous."

"Then there's no hope for you. The enemy has already breached your defenses -- seeping in through your pores, twisting your thoughts with nano-transmitters."

"Forget the bag. Why was I attacked?"

"Gotta go." [End call.]

"Salute." The call ends.

"Hello and welcome to the Reality Situation! Before we begin, I just need to check -- is your line secure?"

Fuck!

"That's a joke, obviously. No line is secure. Your thoughts, ladies and gentlemen, are not secure. Consciousness itself is tapped, the call is coming from inside the house."

"First off, is this for real?"

"An insane question, for reasons that should be quite apparent. Tell me, what aspect of 'Reality' did you want to ask about?"

"I have some questions, Bagman."

"Of course. What aspect of the Situation did you want to ask about?"