You return to the hole.

You return to the hole.

Turn your ear to the hole, listen to the song.

As the song grows louder, spectres melt into the space around you -- a group of people in the tunic suits worn by Superbloc officials.

"And what has communism done for the people of the Superbloc? Single ply toilet paper, one-bedroom apartments. You talk of materialism but where is the material?"

You turn to see Sweet Nestor holding a document up above his head, ghostly moustache rippling with fury.

"We cannot hold Portofiro back for the sake of ideological purity. Revolution got our wheels spinning but now we have to go somewhere!"

Sounds like he's about to abandon his Crew...

With way more style than when you did it.

"You say Nestor isn't communist enough? Well I say communism isn't Nestor enough! From now on, we will fully embrace the politics of Nestorismo."

"We will take EMTERR's money to develop Portofiro, no more Superbloc fearmongering! Portofiro isn't some backwater province. PROSPERITY AND AUTONOMY!"

THERE IS NO AUTONOMY WITH THE BANK'S ROTTEN TEAT IN YOUR MOUTH.

He draws a pistol from his coat, there are gasps from the crowd.

No way...

"This is what I think of your treaty!"

Shit. We're about to get shot for a third time.

He fires. The bullet passes through the treaty, through your torso. It sinks soundlessly into the hole in the wall.

Yep. Three. Three fucking times.

Ghost bullets don't hurt. Good to know.

Wish the bomb had killed him.

And prevented him from investing Portofiro's hopes and dreams in a semi-hostile foreign power which could withdraw its support at any moment...

"Get out! No listening party, no conference. Get out of my Palace of Culture! You heard me -- mine!"

The ghostly crowd begins to disappear as it rushes towards the door.

Wish the bomb had wanged him.

Did PROBABLE know that Nestor was about to betray communism?

It's... possible. The whole thing whiffs of espionage.

Wang him back.

You draw your gun and fire at the spectral dictator. The bullet passes through him and embeds itself in the opposite wall.

You hear excited screams from behind you.

Shoot him back.

"Motherfucker!"

The musicians' heads swivel toward you.

"I never!"

So, I'm seeing the day Nestor broke with the Superbloc.

You'd never heard that he shot the treaty.

A figure so storied that some inevitably got lost.

Shit, Nestor had gravitas.

He had Nestorismo.

What a prick.

'Nestorismo' -- Nestor's personal brand of politics. It meant whatever he meant at that moment.

"Communist poltergeists! Hear me! Let us conspire! What are your wishes?"

You hear your own voice multiplied in echoes across the hall.

Kick a nearby ghost.

Your foot passes through the nearest spectre and into the chair cushions. Dust flies, lice weep.

Is the building trapped in a moment of ideological crisis?

Or celebrating the moment of rupture.

You turn to see an imposing figure bearing down on the crowd, ghostly moustache rippling with fury as he holds some document above his head.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

What happened in 80?

He fled to an unknown location after being exiled for the third and apparently final time, though a small collection of loyalists await his return.

That is a long time.

In his own words, he relieved his citizens from the burden of voting.

Surrounded...

I know, I see them.

Just warning you. Ghosts.

It's fine, they're comrade ghosts, from the Superbloc.

Superghosts...

Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts!

Yes, I get it -- ghosts! Hush.

You're just going to be in here with the ghosts. Alright.

Yeah is this a bit fucked maybe?

Get the fuck out of here!

Tune in to the building's frequency.

You breathe in, tasting the building's flavour -- stale damp, chalk. Dust swims through your lungs. The building knows you, now. It will allow itself to be known in turn.

Figures appear in the hall. Hazy, human, laughing. They walk through you. Rushing up and down the stairs. They carry bunting, trays of food...

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

With the ghostly figures comes a song -- a low and constant sound. The room ripples with noise, alive but blurred like a dream.

What... is happening?

Perhaps the song is hypnotising you into sharing a memory with the building, an architectural daydream.

People pass you, chattering, formed in cloud by a slapdash maker. Some have both eyes on one side of their head, others are rendered limbless.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

Must be an explanation. Need to see more.

A pair of hands passes you by, applauding.

A manifestation of psychic guilt, but whose?

Many spirits seem stronger than others -- their features clearer, their voices louder. The song rises as they pass. You could be onto something.

Spectral communists are trying to reveal immaterialist truths to me...

Some spirits seem stronger than others -- their features clearer, their voices louder. The song rises as they pass. Perhaps a side effect of their enhanced materialism.

Ghosts aren't real, this is bullshit.

The spirits mist and reform, swirling around you as they move. A floating arm passes through you, clutching a wine glass. Hurting them could be a challenge.

This building is having an existential crisis.

Look around.

Again, the music slips from your mind.

Come on! I thought I had it.

Songs are not real.

The faint drumbeat evades you, slipping away into the shadows.

Try to tap out the beat.

So arhythmic that it may never have been a drumbeat at all.

Inspect the hole.

It's the bullet hole from Nestor's shot at the Superbloc treaty.

Four inches in diameter, about two inches deep, cratering towards the middle.

Made by a bullet, undoubtedly. Things were getting heated in this Portofiran People's Assembly.

Poke the hole.

Your finger disappears to the first knuckle. You feel concrete crumbling around it.

This structure is not stable. Anything could happen, withdraw your poker immediately.

THRUST PROUDLY INTO THE ORIFICE. CONFIRM THE STRUCTURAL AND IDEOLOGICAL IDENTITY OF THE PARTY HEADQUARTERS.

Thrust.

You move your finger around in the hole. Crusty. Thin cracks erupt from the impact, running amok over the wall.

See.

Withdraw.

You pull out of the hole.

PUSS.

Leave the hole.

You back away from the wall.

A colony of lice writhes in the hall seating, their mouths full of old cotton. Above them, a perfectly circular hole in the wall draws your attention.

Lips in the concrete, singing to you.

You think you hear someone's voice rise in song, but the sound ends as quickly as it began.

You hear someone's voice singing, but only for a moment.