The grinning 'Financial Citizen' welcomes you back, his offer still on the table.

The grinning 'Financial Citizen' welcomes you back, his offer still on the table.

Can I reach in this thing?

Unlikely. The slot is too narrow and the chamber within too deep.

Can I break into this thing?

A quick appraisal reveals two heavyweight locks. You'd be here for hours.

Kick it.

Your foot clangs off the solid metal door.

More solid than it looked.

Consider the pompadour man.

A grinning envoy of the so-called Developed World.

Kurt wasn't looking at his eyes. He was looking at the stack of paper clutched in his fists.

This moneypot is a honeypot.

Behold, the new seduction.

A young man stares at the advertisement, dry-mouthed. Between his legs he can feel the stirring of a novel infatuation.

The endpoint of EMTERR's core psycho-philosophy: turning Want into Need.

Glance at the fine print.

'All disputes fall under the credit provider's local arbitration.' Any further details about the credit provider are nowhere to be found.

This is a facade. A translucent mask.

So why would the headphone man stop here?

Because he is an operant. And this is an astral door, a dead drop operated by a predatory foreign financial entity.

The six letters flash across your mind, capitalised, bolded, underlined:

EMTERR.

Who else? This 'credit provider' is a limp in-joke from the Empire sans Territoire.

Take another look at the pompadour man.

You notice now that his wide grin doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Is EMTERR after... Yana?

Enemies all the time. The girl's greatest inheritance from Tempo after the three-pack-a-day habit.

THE SIGNS ARE ALL TOO OBVIOUS. YOU STAND BEFORE AN ENEMY OUTPOST.

This is EMTERR.

THE BOSS OF LIQUID IMPERIALISM.

So this headphone guy must be an operant...

A COSMETICATED REACTIONARY ARMED WITH BOTH HANDGUN AND LIMITLESS CREDIT.

... And this is an astral door. A dead drop.

This is a front. And not even a competent one.

A front for what?

There's only one shadowy 'credit provider' you know. EMTERR.

A limp in-joke from the Empire sans Territoire.

This is an astral door, a dead drop. The headphone man is with The Bank. Which makes him very dangerous.

AND VERY REACTIONARY.

Smile back at him.

On the stained streets of Calle del Partido, two sets of teeth are bared.

They are very compelling stacks of paper.

Just about enough for a really cool jacket.

Peer through the slot.

The metal flap creaks open. The gold around the rim is stained with bronze and scuffed with scratches.

What's that inside?

The blade of light catches crimson plastic -- a red disc, marked with the words 'Ultra Violeta', followed by 'You But From a Dream'.

A tensing in your gut as another piece of the doom puzzle slots into place.

Same as the disc PSEUDOPOD was listening to...

The very same.

Still doesn't explain why he wasn't wearing trousers.

You gather your thoughts, staving off the final insight...

Those fan-shifting teens were right...

They were officially cautioned by an EMTERR operant. As was your double, it seems. With prejudice.

We've been outspied.

And outgunned.

A disc? Is that it?

That's it.

Wasn't PSEUDOPOD listening to something before he... deactivated?

PSEUDOPOD was hooked up to a stereo system when you found him. You never checked what he had 'on-deck'.

He's resorted to applying for loans with rare discs. Sad.

You've been hearing a lot of talk about those headphones of his. 'Custom job', the word on the street. Those do not come cheap.

Let's break this down...

Begin here: The weird man in headphones is an EMTERR operant. That much is clear from this astral door.

Logical succession. Most important part of the job.

So EMTERR, through the headphone man, gave PSEUDOPOD... a red disc.

Alternative wording

So EMTERR, through the headphone man, gave PSEUDOPOD... an Ultra Violeta disc.

The matching discs cannot be a coincidence. The headphone man and PSEUDOPOD must have made contact.

REACTIONARY CONSORTING.

Two spies make contact and only one walks away. Even though PSEUDOPOD still technically breathes...

... He's effectively been zeroed out.

Correct. Next up: How?

Armed technology. Metaphysical ruin.

The red disc was a weapon. Not some accident.

Red for danger. Red for a bearer of the plague.

I knew it all along.

And now you've all but proved it.

This might hold for PSEUDOPOD.... but why was the headphone guy after Tempo?

Tempo's deal has many levels and many ripples. There is a part of it you don't understand yet.

The imprinting device... but something else too, something behind the device...

Is this guy Tempo's enemy, or Yana's?

Or yours? The girl hasn't given you the full story, that's for sure.

She's protecting something.

Marco?

Something else. Something deeper.

Quick fingers of wind pluck the aero-tram wires above you.

The city hems you in. All of its potential escape routes suddenly seem like doors crudely painted on brick walls.

I need to help Yana. To make it up to Tempo.

She could use it. Behind the facade, her small hand is outstretched in desperation.

Either way, she needs to tell me exactly what's going on here. (Step back from the astral door.)

The pompadour man looks expectantly over your shoulder, his gaze alight.

Your arm is extended. You hold a gun at the end of it. The gun is pointing at your own back.

Predictive reinforcement. A honed skill. Someone has you in their sights.

LONG-RANGE MISSILES LAUNCHED. SOUND THE SIRENS.

You have a sliver of time in which to react, the span of a single mental event.

Your body tenses under threat.

Dodge.

One fluid motion, sweep and turn:

Sidestep left.

The bullet cracks into the wall beside you.

Followed by the thunderclap of the gunshot.

Darkness on the edge of your peripheral vision as the centre sharpens to a scalpel point.

Look in the direction of the shot.

You lock eyes with a man in a long coat.

The eyes are pale blue, water under ice.

Around his neck are a large pair of headphones. His face is impassive as he holds a strange gun on you.

Warning shot. Not kill.

There's barely enough time for a response.

Take your own shot.

The bullet was never going to hit, but it does speed up his exit.

As the crack of your shot echoes around the plaza, the headphone man ducks and disappears through a metal door to the side of the rooftop.

At least now he knows. You try to eat us, we leave a tööth in you.

As he goes, you catch a flash of vivid coloured lining on the inside of his coat.

Slowly, then all at once, the world fades back in.

Your shoulder singes. Blood drips a steady rhythm on your foot.

You are alone again.

Far more vivid than before.

Give him two fingers.

He looks confused for a moment -- then ducks and disappears through a metal door to the side of the rooftop.

Wave at him.

He does not wave back -- instead, he ducks and disappears through a metal door to the side of the rooftop.

"I know you killed my double."

The man starts to respond, thinks better of it -- then ducks and disappears through a metal door to the side of the rooftop.

"Head next time, pussy, make me feel something."

"Warning shot? Extremely softcore."

The man keeps his eyes on you until the last second -- then he ducks and disappears through a metal door to the side of the rooftop.

"I see Party Alley's gone to the dogs!"

Draw your gun.

Your hand finds the grip and pulls it clean.

Beyond the barrel, you lock eyes with a man in a long coat.

Turn and draw your gun.

Full on evasive manoeuvres! Speed and distance! Now!

Lunge right.

Your shoulder thuds with impact. Bones vibrate.

A searing pain, blooming in spirals. Then, somewhere after, the thunderclap of a gun.

I just got shot, didn't I.

Unfortunately, yes. No mistaking that sensation.

Second bullet this lifetime.

And counting.

Only the shoulder, could've been worse...

The bullet would've completely missed had you just stood still.

This is nothing, we wanted to take it. Do it again. Fäce this time.

Stay still.

Veins frost over as you hold your ground.

Nope, fuck that. When did staying still ever work out for anyone?

Somewhere behind. Focused on your back. Malice.

Danger. Grave. Behind you.

Yana's been playing me from the start. Very possible she works for EMTERR.

And this 'Marco' character. They've certainly got the payroll for it. Kids are cheap.

The kid's pitting the best against the best. Ringside seat to the spy show.

You can get blood on you from that distance.

Everyone's operating on half-truths here. Yana too. That's how our thing goes.

Your dial's reading closer to three-quarter truth now.

Not me, that much is clear.

Because she thinks you can handle yourself. It's a mark of respect.

It can only be the Mega Violator. She was so cagey about it...

That's one possibility. But it doesn't quite feel right, does it?

Doesn't matter. Yana's right in the line of fire.

Alongside Asset SCARF, oblivious amidst his promising theatre debut.

A gun kicks twice. A girl's scream cut short, as if violently unplugged. Blood splatters the pink fabric of a plush dolphin.

One thing is clear: the teenage girl has not been entirely straight with you.

No one's ever straight with me. This whole world never plays straight.

Maybe she can't be straight with you. Not yet.

Is that even possible?

Very much depends on what's on the disc.

This Ultra Violeta actually blew PSEUDOPOD's mind?

Anything could've been on that disc. Not necessarily the high queen of Luzian Electro Pop.

Great. I can never listen to music again.

If it was even music that was on there.

Death but from a dream.

Disc. Deathdream. Him.

... We were compromised before I even got here.

With the method hiding in plain sight.

Did PSEUDOPOD defect to EMTERR... for a disc?

I really don't think he defected.

So more likely:

Weaponised technology.

It wasn't some weird accident. The disc zeroed PSEUDOPOD out.

Music can transcend ideological divides!

No, no, the red disc... the red disc was a weapon. Not some accident.

Culture conquers all.

And yet... some find themselves more conquered than others.

Maybe it's an exceptionally rare disc.

But there's at least two of them. Can't be that rare.

But more likely:

Why was he after Tempo? I thought his deal was with the Luzians.

No loans today, thanks. [Leave.]

The grinning man watches you go, still eager to provide.

'MAL CREDITO? NO PROBLEMO!' A small image of a grinning man with an aggressive pompadour tosses fistfuls of coins at you. 'The Financial Citizen: Buy Now, Pay Later'.

Beneath him, a rusted mail slot welcomes loan applications.