Rotanev's shrine sits undisturbed under its worn wooden awning.

Rotanev's shrine sits undisturbed under its worn wooden awning.

Alternative wording

You step to Rotanev's shrine, taking shelter from the grey rain.

Alternative wording

You step to Rotanev's shrine, taking shelter from the cutting ocean wind.

Alternative wording

Rotanev's shrine is bathed in the cold light of the slivered moon.

Examine the offerings.

A few of the reverent have left photographs of shop fronts, ribbons. As you look more closely you see bandages, symbolic blindfolds to keep pursuers at bay.

Observing the whole tableau is a hunk of wood. It may once have been well-carved but now it merely suggests Rotanev -- mouselike ears, a sack clasped before him. People have pushed coins into the cracks in his timber for good luck.

Who's leaving this stuff now?

Superstitious businessmen. Refugees and expatriates. Boar exterminators. Boys who like girls who are playing hard to get.

And girls who want boys to leave them alone.

All self-perpetuating cycles are a form of the hunt. Addiction, anxiety, conquest. The Chase, the Flight.

THE BUSINESSMAN THINKS HIMSELF A HUNTER. THIS IS NOT JUST COMMODITY FETISHISM BUT LABOUR FETISHISM, DELUSION IN THE EXTREME.

What else is here?

The shrine patiently awaits your inquiries.

What's this doing all the way out here?

'All the way out here' was a real place once, before it was razed to make way for Nestor's space program.

Here, the foundation of a house -- two middle-aged women inside, silent as they pack up furniture that belonged to their mother.

They'll leave a candle on the shrine before they go, for her spirit.

The offerings on the shrine altar are a mix of the old and the new -- though the recent additions are fewer in number.

Help yourself to some of the cash offerings.

A 5 sol bill flutters in a gust of wind, and you snatch it between your fingers.

Blasphemous.

And maybe a coin or two...

You pluck a coin from where it's been wedged into a crack in the angel's wooden idol.

Defiler. It sends a sick thrill through you.

The wind picks up, whipping through sharp sea grass. For a second, you think you may hear a whale call, far off shore.

Thanks, Rotanev. (Back.)

Offer freeze-dried cosmonaut rations to Rotanev.

You take out the packet, its plastic wrapper crinkling at your touch.

"Rotanev, accept this offering..."

You tuck the packet in between two picture frames, a photo of squealing children picking clams from a sandy beach and a faded instant camera shot of two men holding up the corpse of a boar, grinning.

Perfect spot.

"May I find the forgiveness I've been chasing."

The breeze grows warm as it caresses your cheek.

The abandoned shells of buildings creak around you, a chorus of rusted metal and wind.

Somewhere on a distant hill, a wild dog howls. In your nostrils, the rabbity scent of fear.

"May my assignment not run into any sudden and mysterious complications."

Though you are alone, a sense of knowing comes over you -- an awareness of every creature nearby, every set of eyes turned to you.

"May I wreck my enemies' shit."

There is a sudden new spring in your step. You feel as if you could take off running and go for hours.

"May I reach the destination where I was meant to be."

You blink, and for a moment the world around you seems clearer: sights, smells, sounds.

Actually, no. [Back.]

You pop the little object back into your pocket.

Pray to Rotanev.

You shift your stance, unsure of where to look with the eyes of a hundred strangers watching you from their framed eternity.

The glow of the candles' collected light reflecting on the awning, their warmth cutting through the cold.

The smell of beeswax.

Say a prayer for yourself.

Your words don't carry the weight they did the first time. Their meaning is adrift.

Your muttered litany is carried away on the wind.

Light years stand between you and the star -- your hunt will be long over by the time this invocation reaches it.

"HOLOCENE..."

What is there to say? His hunt was successful, but he was his own prey.

"I'm sorry I left you behind."

For just a moment, the sliver of moon you can see beyond the skyline of Portofiro seems to glow brighter.

A pool of blood dries on a tile floor, on skin rapidly growing cold. The stain will linger, but the body itself will slip back into the shadows as if it was never there.

The sun peeks through the clouds, and for just a second, you are half-blind with the light.

"I suspect the mould has become a M.I.H.O. operant. May your organization thrive in this new form."

"You had skill, but no luck. May you no longer be lost in the forest of mirrors."

"Wherever you are, I hope you're not afraid anymore."

I don't know, none of these feel right.

"Platitudes, CASCADE." His voice echoes inside your head. "We've got no need for those in our profession."

"Ultra Violeta..."

Not all prey can escape.

"I didn't want to sacrifice you. I'm sorry it came to this."

The wind changes direction, and for a moment, you catch the smell of the ocean.

On the deck of a boat bound for the Illuminated Empire, a young woman contemplates throwing herself into the sea. The water is cold, dark, clear.

"I'm pretty sure you were some kind of false-flag anyway."

"Tough luck. Should've picked better friends."

"I hope you can find a new purpose in the work."

This feels wrong. I don't have the right to do this.

Damp air wraps around you like a heavy blanket.

Actually, maybe now's not the time.

A breeze rustles through the paper money.

Step away from the shrine. [Leave.]

A seagull cries overhead as you step back from the shrine.

The weather-beaten wooden awning protects offerings to the angel Rotanev -- paper money, cold candles in a row, and photo frames, once a plastic rainbow, now sun-bleached into near-identical shades.

Rotanev: angel of predators and prey. Also dialectics and investment banking.