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You approach your double. A faint line of drool darkens the sheet.
"You know, I could really use you on this assignment."
"..."
He's a blank piece of media.
There's someone in there. A potential you for you to awaken.
Pathetic. Vulnerable. Malleable.
Branch
Branch
Staring at the frail shape in bed, Poor Dante's words echo in your mind.
'Naturally, the process works best on catatonics and simpletons.'
Branch
As you consider the vacant face of your inanimate double, your thoughts turn towards the mysterious imprinting device, its weight suddenly all too palpable.
Some things are better left untouched.
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Reanimate your double. (Use Gonza's stamp.)
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You slip the tab into his mouth. It feels dry, hot, and deeply wrong.
Like a bird's nest after the snake ate its fill.
Massage the medicine down his throat.
The medication swims through his body, drawn with every breath, every beat of his heart. Searching for the right pathways.
There's something wrong.
Nothing is happening. No movement, no reaction.
Wait.
Lungs exhale, piss brews. Nothing remarkable.
Nothing at all?
At all.
Must be a duff diagnosis.
The rhythm of PSEUDOPOD's pulse dances like code against your fingers, speaking the truth.
Listen.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A dead heart.
Shine a light to his eyes.
You take out your lighter, press the flint wheel to its familiar groove in your thumb. It strikes, first time. His pupils do not contract, his pulse does not change.
"PSEUDOPOD!"
Nothing.
Let go of him.
A ripple of goosebumps across your back. In the absence of immediate danger, the fear crosses you only delicately, a whisper on your neck.
This is not an unconscious body; it is a breathing corpse.
Branch
The watcher has abandoned his station.
Maybe the drugs are bad.
You slip the tab into his mouth. It feels dry, hot, and deeply wrong.
Branch
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Tab is in mouth.
Okay, what now?
No action? Assess blood-flow stimulus response.
A firm slap might be the last thing he needs to come back.
Don't fuck around. Straight for the love zone.
Branch
Slap him.
The movement dislodges a droplet of drool from his lip and leaves a bright red welt on his cheek.
Try the other side.
With a crack you hit the other side of his face, giving him a matching blush.
This close, you see how empty he is, how slack his muscles. This isn't the peace of sleep or even a coma. He's gone.
Branch
Straighten his glasses.
Gently, you rearrange the unconscious man's glasses onto his nose.
Kiss him.
You place your lips on his, slightly parted. He is warm but slack, exhibiting no response to the touch.
This is deeply wrong. Try making this seem like it was some sort of medical thing. Kiss of life, yeah?
Try breathing life into him.
You pinch his nostrils with one hand, steady him with the other, and blow. His cheeks puff out on either side of your face like slack, stubbly bellows. But no response. He isn't coming around.
Branch
Engage tongue.
You slip your tongue into his mouth, searching for his. You find it dry, almost rough with prolonged exposure to the air. You taste the stale breath of his lungs and know, he isn't going to come around.
Rub his crotch.
You smooth your palm over his trousers, rubbing the fabric until you feel his body stir -- a soft twitch in reaction to your caress.
Give it an encouraging pat.
The fabric stretches a little over the meagre summit of his response.
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"Hey little guy."
No response.
Thankfully.
That can't be all. Investigate further.
You explore the handful of steadily growing flesh, making out the shape with your fingers. It twitches again and you know: That really was all.
I'm disgusting. (Keep rubbing.)
You explore the handful of flesh, pulsing shyly in your palm. But its effort is weak and short-lived. You feel the blood drain back into the boring parts of his body.
Leave him alone.
You stand up. Whatever happened, it's far too serious to be alleviated by medication of uncertain origins.
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"So, you looking forward to working together?"
Alternative wording
"So, rough start, let's try again... You looking forward to working together?"
"..."
"Still working on that assignment, any update?"
"..."
Like any good operant, he is keeping all cards pressed to chest.
"Kind of messed up they didn't give me any information here, right? Just your name."
"..."
"Between us, it's been a while since I've done this."
The man's head slips two centimetres to the left. His jaw slides with it.
Alternative wording
Saliva leaks from the corner of the man's mouth and pools on the floor.
"Between us, it's been a while since I've done this.""Fortunately you seem to be on top of things.""Well, that makes one of us.""Of course. I didn't want to assume.""Fine, don't.""Very intriguing.""Your thoughts on this, operant, if any.""Whatever happens has already happened.""No, no, honestly, don't worry about it. I bounced back."
Branch
"Got some new openings on my Crew."
"..."
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"Want in?"
"..."
(Lean close.) "It's Lich-killin' time, brother."
"..."
His chest keeps rising and falling in slow, uneven swells.
"Welcome to the team."
"..."
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"Limited time offer, don't take too long."
"I'm putting together a crew. You could join."
"Hang in there." (Go back.)
"..."
"So, there might be a way to bring you back..."
"..."
"Good news. I found the guy that took you out."
"..."
"Real prick. Possibly a pervert."
"..."
"You're right, no 'possibly' about it."
"..."
"You're right, no 'possibly' about it.""Sorry, that was insensitive.""I don't know, I suppose I'm just a better spy than you.""Just deal with it, please. Be a pro.""Of course I haven't forgotten about your 'vengeance'. Just has to wait a while.""No one's blaming you, man, impossible to see that coming."
Branch
"Tried to take me out too."
"..."
"Sorry, that was insensitive."
"I don't know, I suppose I'm just a better spy than you."
"We're kind of working together now."
"..."
"Just deal with it, please. Be a pro."
"Of course I haven't forgotten about your 'vengeance'. Just has to wait a while."
'It was the disc, apparently. But you already knew that."
"..."
"No one's blaming you, man, impossible to see that coming."
"This was supposed to be my big comeback."
"..."
"Thank you for your support."
"..."
Branch
"You think I can't do it? The fuck would you know?"
"It's cool, all my assignments start like this."
"..."
"Exactly."
"..."
"I'm sorry we won't get the chance to sell socks together."
"..."
In another life, you are both earnestly selling your cotton wares, far beyond the shadows of international intelligence.
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"You don't think this is my fault, do you?"
"..."
"I'll stop you there. It is."
"..."
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"Cool, just checking."
"You are way out of line."
"Couldn't help but notice you're designated lead..."
"..."
"I know in my heart I am lead. The Opera can do what they must."
"..."
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"'More experience'?"
"..."
"'A steadier hand'?"
"..."
"Listen to yourself. You're out of your mind."
"..."
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"Looks like I'm in for an early promotion."
"..."
You can do it, CASCADE!, he says with his eyes.
"Let's check in again later." (Go back.)
"..."
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"Fortunately you seem to be on top of things."
"I'm feeling pretty fucked here, how are you feeling?"
"..."
"Well, that makes one of us."
"Of course. I didn't want to assume."
"You can trust me."
"..."
"Fine, don't."
"Very intriguing."
"I just had a massive dissociative episode."
"..."
"Very intense. You were talking to me."
"..."
"Your thoughts on this, operant, if any."
"Whatever happens has already happened."
"I wouldn't say it's your fault, as such... but you definitely played a part."
"..."
"No, no, honestly, don't worry about it. I bounced back."
"Cool, cool, me too. Anyway... (Back.)
"..."
Branch
Turn on the imprinting device.
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The screen boots up with the salute of the Luzian empire comprised of five vertical lines. << AVE IMPERIO LUMINOSO >>
<< VISUALISE MEMORY FOR BIOLOGICAL IMPRINT >> OR << SELECT MANUAL IMPRESSION TO FORCE IMPRINT >>
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The old prisoner said that the more formative the memory, the better.
A sacrifice. For the machine-god.
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What kind of memory?
To make a clear biological imprint, the memory should be as personal as possible.
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For example, your recollections of your old squadmates...
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... or of that last summer, way back in Landau...
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... or your memory of joining the Opera...
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... or your recollections of the past five years in the freezer.
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Sacrifice [GHOST RECORDER] for imprinting.
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<< WARNING: MEMORY WILL BE LOST. PROCEED? >>
Do it.
Within the device, tiny fans whirr up. A green glow washes over your face.
<< VISUALISATION RECEIVED >>
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No way. [Go back.]
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<< WARNING: UNCLEAR VISUALISATION >>
The device requires an internalised memory. Check your conditioning, operant.
Sacrifice [LANDAU, SUMMER 81] for imprinting.
Branch
<< WARNING: MEMORY WILL BE LOST. PROCEED? >>
Do it.
Within the device, tiny fans whirr up. A green glow washes over your face.
No way. [Go back.]
Sacrifice [CAREER OPPORTUNITIES] for imprinting.
Branch
<< WARNING: MEMORY WILL BE LOST. PROCEED? >>
Do it.
Within the device, tiny fans whirr up. A green glow washes over your face.
No way. [Go back.]
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Sacrifice [COLD STORAGE] for imprinting.
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<< WARNING: MEMORY WILL BE LOST. PROCEED? >>
Do it.
Within the device, tiny fans whirr up. A green glow washes over your face.
No way. [Go back.]
Branch
Imprint your memory onto PSEUDOPOD.
You dive into a slipstream of indiscernible forms, all silhouetted by the cold light of the sensor eye.
A map of resentments, a territory of pain.
You brush something in the deep past -- the memory like light passing through fabric, singeing your face as it passes by.
Like your heartbeat adjusts to the pulse of a drum, the device attempts to calibrate something in your brain.
Branch
There are voices just outside your world. A group of figures, colossal and diffuse, sitting around a a box on the floor.
What's in the box?
Assorted keepsakes.
Press X. (Proceed.)
<< IMPRINTING... >>
Branch
The box in the middle of the room sinks and swallows the floor. Then the walls; then the ceiling. Then it swallows itself and collapses into an infinitesimal point on the horizon.
Six shadows turn their backs to you one by one. No one smiles.
The lid will never come off again.
Colours bloom between the pulses, pale iridescent violets and fleeting greens.
The device hums as though also in pain.
The image brightens until something snaps within your skull. Suddenly you realise you're looking at it: A recreation of the scene has been rendered in blurred, lachrymose textures across the screen of the device.
Examine the image.
The forms are indistinct, the colours a product of your brain trying to render an image too fast to properly observe.
<< FINALISING IMPRINT. DO NOT MOVE. >>
A sudden jolt of movement from the edge of your peripheral vision.
Look at PSEUDOPOD.
His eyes connect with yours.
Feral sentience. Unformed. Willing.
"I once knew a spy..."
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<< IMPRINT COMPLETE. AVE IMPERIO LUMINOSO Y GLORIA A LOS CAÍDOS >>
"Aaaaguueeeiiiigghh!"
As you pull yourself off the ground, two things become apparent: Your double is gone, and you have an absolutely throbbing headache.
"My god! PSEUDOPOD, you're..."
"Alive!"
The front door slams shut.
Operant off-script. The situation is serious.
Is it just you, or has he gotten... kind of cute?
Branch
End of this branch
"Constanz! Stop him!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Focus on the image.
The words burn themselves into your retinas as the device begins to shake.
What the fuck?
Branch
A bullet follows you past the corner shop, a bus stop and the flower market into an ambulance.
This is the last good look it will get at you.
Branch
The shadow expands, scattering the kettles about. Water spills out across the floor, an exposed wire hisses and explodes.
Electricity crackles under your feet as smoke rises all around. It gets stuck in your pant legs, expanding, lifting you up, until you find yourself pressed against the ceiling.
All the same you feel there's a two-way mirror, and on the other side, a row of blank faces sitting in judgement.
Branch
The sound of shoes scuffing the floor. A gust of wind blows into the cold, cold room. Stacks of folders shiver before they fall, burying faces and places.
Only a few odd limbs stick out, accompanied by a slow, pained moaning. They might as well be ghosts.
At your back, the howl of the ventilation shaft. If you wanted, you could... just...
Branch
There are voices just outside your world. A group of figures, colossal and diffuse, running for their lives.
What are they running from?
You.
Branch
Smoke swirls to fill the edges of your awareness... twenty electric kettles atop a variety of television monitors. Behind the desk, a large shadow looms.
What is it?
Previously, your future.
Branch
Stacks of folders line up the walls towering far above you. Across the building, someone is dragging their feet.
Who is it dragging their feet?
As of current, your past.
Your abdomen contracts. This is wrong.
Branch
Your mind is dry, desiccated. Whenever you try to summon the memory, it's like you've switched to a test pattern.
<< MEMORY FAILED TO IMPRINT >>
Piece of shit. (Smack your palm against the device.)
The message on the screen wobbles but does not change.
Branch
Try blowing on it.
Droplets of spittle fleck the glowing screen, but the message does not change.
Maybe if I turn it off and back on...
You're not entirely sure what you expect that to do, but the option is available to you.
Guess I'll try again later.
The machine hums, awaiting your input.
Pain, guilt, loss -- what others would gladly give you, you cling to desperately. Without them, you wouldn't be yourself.
Manually imprint on PSEUDOPOD.
<< FORCING IMPRINT. MAINTAIN EYE CONTACT WITH SENSOR >>
PSEUDOPOD begins to tremble. At the same time, you feel something vibrating deep within you.
It's the vibration of the earth as a drill passes through your brain.
Wait, drilling for what?
Psychic deposits. Trauma veins that run deep into the neural substrata of you.
Stare at the sensor.
Your double's trembling intensifies as the vibration in your skull turns to genuine physical pain.
A hornet-flight vibration emanating from a spot just between your eyes, an insect trying to escape from the centre of your brain.
"Gg-gnh! Ugh! Ugh!" His face erupts in violent spasms.
Keep staring.
A white hot rod of metal passes clean through your skull. Somewhere in the distance you hear a woman cry out in pain.
Branch
Breathe.
Is this supposed to be happening?
Humans were not made to make copies of themselves.
Branch
It's like the device can sense your hesitation.
<< REPEATED ATTEMPTS TO FORCE IMPRINT MAY RESULT IN PERMANENT TISSUE DAMAGE. >>
Wait, I change my mind!
Too late. There's no 'BACK' option.
"Gg-gnh! Ugh! Ugh!" Your double shudders with unspeakable terror, unable to defend or deflect.
<< FORCE IMPRINT FAILED. TRY AGAIN? >>
Branch
I was born with permanent tissue damage.
Bear that in mind.
As you input the command, it dawns on you that you really, really don't want to be doing this.
<< FORCING IMPRINT. MAINTAIN EYE CONTACT. >>
No, it's cool. I've committed. (Try to focus.)
All of a sudden the motor inside the machine starts whirring with disturbing force. Your double's chest heaves in violent spasms.
An invisible machine gun, ventilating him.
Nausea.
"Gg-gnh! Ugh! Ugh!"
The screen blinks and blurs.
<< FORCE IMPRINT FAILED. TRY AGAIN? >>
Branch
This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is...
Select MANUAL IMPRESSION.
The device's hum changes pitch as you select the option.
<< WARNING: FORCED IMPRINTING MAY INCREASE SUBJECT DISSONANCE >>
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Select EXIT.
<< AVE IMPERIO. GLORIA A LOS CAÍDOS >>
"Hhh.." An exhalation escapes PSEUDOPOD as the machine powers down.
A memory?
<< AVE IMPERIO LUMINOSO >> The screen boots up with the salute of La Luz, comprised of five vertical lines.
Branch
A single option appears below: << BEGIN >>
Fuck nature. (Proceed.)
The salute fades as a new command appears.
<< IMMOBILISE SUBJECT >>
An offering, the boy trussed and gagged upon a bed of flowers.
Bish, bash, bosh. Already sorted it.
"Uugurguruuh..." A low growl escapes your double's mouth.
<< POSITION SUBJECT TO ESTABLISH EYE CONTACT >>
Prop him up.
After some nudging and twisting, you manage to get his head to stay upright, and his eyes slowly roll into place.
Weirdly stiff, and yet too lax to be easily posed, like a rubbery puppet lacking a hand inside.
"Uuuuhhhhnnnrrr....."
Another red light blinks to life, this time on your side of the device.
<< SUBJECT EYE CONTACT ESTABLISHED. ESTABLISH EYE CONTACT, OBJECT. >>
That must be you. The 'object'.
Wait, shouldn't I be the subject?
The red light blinks with a slow, steady pulse, awaiting your response.
What begins as a single intense point in the centre of the screen gradually radiates outwards across your field of vision.
A diffuse, bruise-coloured glow.
The world shrinks.
Is this... intimacy?
In the future, it will be.
We will become many.
God, forgive me for what I'm about to do.
Select BEGIN. (Proceed.)
Uh-uh. Nope. Not doing it. (Turn it off.)
<< AVE IMPERIO Y GLORIA A LOS CAÍDOS >> The device powers down.
Branch
No salute. Blood splatter.
Marking a location of ceremony.
Come, it says. We are about to violate all the laws of man and nature.
A little fanciful, isn't it?
A single option appears below: << BEGIN >>
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The screen boots up with the salute of La Luz, comprised of five vertical lines. << AVE IMPERIO LUMINOSO >>
<< VISUALISE MEMORY FOR BIOLOGICAL IMPRINT >> OR << SELECT MANUAL IMPRESSION TO FORCE IMPRINT >>
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The battery compartment slides open with ease, almost like an invitation.
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Careful, you need a working camera for Ignatz's gig. No batteries, no gig.
Fück that guy, and fück his creep gig.
Branch
Use the batteries from the Fuckwand.
A soft shudder runs through the device as it powers on.
Use the batteries from the child's light-up wolf sword.
Use the batteries from Ignatz's camera.
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Hrrmm. Let's not be hasty. (Back out.)
You put the device away.
Branch
Remember that Ignatz's assignment is pending. Best leave that camera alone -- for now.
Thoughts of Tempo flash through your mind.
A brief red pulse, then nothing.
Without batteries, the device is useless.
Branch
"Hey, PSEUDO-Partner. Let me run something by you..."
"..."
Branch
"The assignment, man. What is it?"
A snail's trail of dried saliva glints on the side of his chin.
THE PEOPLE'S SPIES CANNOT BE CAUGHT SHIRKING. TIME TO ESCALATE.
Branch
COERCE PSEUDOPOD BACK INTO SERVICE.
HIS SILENCE IS POLITICALLY SUSPECT, FAST BECOMING A CRIME AGAINST THE PARTY. WILL YOU STAND FOR IT? WILL HE?
"All I need is a few words. I'll even take 'the gist'."
"..."
PATHETIC.
No. This is going great. So so great, the Opera will forget all about last time.
HISTORY ENDED A CENTURY AGO. 'LAST TIME' IS REACTIONARY FETISH. DEFEND THE PARTY, REJECT THE LINEAR PROGRESSION OF TIME.
Stand him up.
The man's breath gargles softly in his throat as you yank him upwards.
He is heavier than he looks.
"Just say something, man, please."
"U-uhck..."
Branch
His deserted eyes slosh in their sockets before settling a hundred miles beyond you.
Put him back in the chair.
ONWARDS. THE UNASSIGNED ASSIGNMENT IS NOW YOURS ALONE.
Branch
His head lolls on its neck hinge. If you didn't know any better, you would say his deserted eyes seem to be urging you in the direction of the bathroom.
"The bathroom? Is that it, boy?"
"Hhhhgggghhhh..."
You heave him up and down, making his limp head bounce in a grotesque nod.
(Pat him on the cheek.) "That's more like it."
"Nnnnkkkkhhhh..."
"Look, PSEUDOPOD, I'm sorry about this. But I need to know what we're doing here."
"YOU CAN TELL ME, OR YOU CAN TELL THE DISCIPLINARY COMMITTEE!"
"COME ON, OUT WITH IT."
He rocks gently, giving away nothing.
ENOUGH OF THIS REACTIONARY REPOSE. UP HE COMES.
"STOP HOLDING OUT ON ME!" (Shake him a little.)
THIS 'SILENT TREATMENT' CONSTITUTES A CLASS-A WAR CRIME, AGAINST YOU. TIME FOR INTERVENTION: PHYSICAL.
"WHERE. IS. MY. ASSIGNMENT. BRIEF!" (Shake him very hard.)
You grab him by his skinny shoulders and heave him upright, his head lolling backward as he rises.
"U-uhck..."
Hold firm. It's just stray air escaping his body.
THIS NON-REACTION IS ALARMINGLY REACTIONARY! IF KEEPING HIM IS NO GAIN, THEN LOSING HIM IS NO DEFICIT.
"WHY ARE YOU FUCKING ME, PSEUDOPOD?"
"Nnnnkkkkhhhh..."
If there's any 'fucking' going on around here, this man is instigating none of it.
"THIS IS MY BIG COMEBACK, YOU'RE BEING EXTREMELY SELFISH!"
"Hhhhgggghhhh..."
"USELESS!" (Drop him.)
He lands in an awkward position, a cut-string puppet, bony hips raised to the air like antennas.
There's your 'brief', operant.
FLAUNTING A REACTIONARY POSE -- FURTHER INSULT. LEAVE THE 'BRIEF HOG' WHERE HE LIES.
"Sorry you made me do that."
Branch
He does not respond. His eyes are transparent glass.
A drop of blood shines on his lip -- he must have bitten his tongue on the way down.
Out of his chair he looks smaller, more fragile, and deeply lost.
Thousands of miles away, his mother flinches in her sleep.
Branch
He does not respond. Though if you didn't know any better, his deserted eyes seem to be urging you towards the bathroom.
"AND STAY FLOORED."
Search him for clues.
Clipped to the inside flap of his jacket you find a laminated badge, emblazoned with the crest of the Import-Export Bureau of the People's Republic of Kohila.
The name reads: 'Esterman, T'. Below that, a title: 'Im-Ex Lead, Hosiery'.
Sock merchant for the Im-Ex Bureau. One of the Operant Bureau's most battle-tested covers.
The word 'LEAD' burns itself into the centre of your visual field.
Branch
Woah, woah, hold up -- lead?
That's what the badge says.
Merely a cover, of course.
AND LOOK HOW WELL THAT WORKED OUT FOR HIM. YOU REMAIN UNGOVERNABLE.
I suppose I did 'Fuck It', in the official parlance.
No, in the official parlance you [REDACTED] then you [REDACTED] but not before [REDACTED] and [REDACTED].
Branch
I detect institutional misogyny at work.
Unfortunately, the Operant Bureau's 'Human Relations' department is nothing but a front for the Irregular Interrogation Directorate.
That explains the three pairs of socks.
Wearing the wares, for ease of display. An operant committed to his role.
Check his pockets. (Proceed.)
Three other things of note -- a slip of paper, a business card, and a rock-hard piece of candy.
Branch
Examine the slip of paper.
It's a purchase order for ten socks, made out to 'Carmuna Pessoa, Fashions & Garments, Bootleg Bazaar'.
Branch
Wheeling and dealing with Carmuna!
An international player on the hosiery scene.
Look out, gäng, they've sent in the Big Möney Bizness Boy.
This must represent some early steps in the assignment from your decommissioned double. Irrelevant now you've caught up with him.
This is not a real order. It's a sympathy order. He obviously made an impression on the old woman.
THE PARTY EXPANDS ITS INFLUENCE ONE EXPOSED HEEL AT A TIME.
Might as well hold on to it.
You should. Technically it's Operant Bureau property.
PSEUDOPOD's obligations are now yours. Never show this to Carmuna. You'll owe her five pairs of socks.
Branch
I should eat this. (Eat it.)
The paper slip goes down easier than you expect.
Sock order? What sock order.
Just ten pairs?
Five pairs. Ten socks.
'Bootleg Bazaar': No co-ordinates found. Some kind of marketplace, but not one you've ever been to.
I should check this place out.
It's a lead, in any case. You just need a local to direct you.
I'll hold on to this.
The slip of paper grows heavy in your hand. It feels like a baton.
PSEUDOPOD's obligations are now yours. You owe this woman five pairs of socks.
Just ten pairs?
Five pairs. Ten socks.
Look out, gäng, they've sent in the Big Möney Bizness Boy.
This is not a real order. It's a sympathy order. He obviously made an impression on this Carmuna.
THE PARTY EXPANDS ITS INFLUENCE ONE EXPOSED HEEL AT A TIME.
Examine the business card.
The card is cheap and scuffed. It reads: 'All you need is miracle' above a cartoonish image of disembodied lips at a phone receiver.
Notably absent is an actual phone number.
Turn the card over.
There's an indecipherable scribble. Whatever's written seems to begin with a 'D'.
Into your pocket it goes.
Branch
Take it.
Candy. Nice.
A wrapped up rectangle of compressed sugar. It's so hard that your fingers cannot make an impression, no matter how much you strain.
Cola flavour, if you had to guess.
The discoloured wrapper depicts a red-cheeked child with a charming sledge. You haven’t seen this brand in years.
Don't touch. Could be poison.
I'll just test this for safety. (Eat it.)
It takes five jaw tenses before you manage to shatter it -- sugary daggers jab the inside of your mouth.
Branch
Your tongue is glass-dusted carpet, your inner cheek bloodied ribbons. The flavour is nothing like 'cola'. Deeply unpleasant.
Mmm, just like I remember. (Keep chewing.)
Alternative wording
Mmm, not bad. (Keep chewing.)
Alternative wording
Seems fine to me. (Keep chewing.)
After a few more game attempts to chew, it takes all the will you possess to swallow the jagged clot. Its aftertaste contaminates your mouth.
Branch
After a few more game attempts to chew, it takes all the will you possess to swallow the jagged clot. Its…The saliva-sodden clot of dark red sugar lands on PSEUDOPOD's lapel and hangs there like a grotesque medal.The saliva-sodden clot of dark red sugar lands on the smooth surface of PSEUDOPOD's underpants and hangs…The candy slips back into the pocket's depths.
Spit it out.
Branch
The saliva-sodden clot of dark red sugar lands on PSEUDOPOD's lapel and hangs there like a grotesque medal.
The saliva-sodden clot of dark red sugar lands on the smooth surface of PSEUDOPOD's underpants and hangs there like a grotesque medal.
Didn't know they still made these. (Eat it.)
No thanks, PSEUDOPOD. (Put it back.)
The candy slips back into the pocket's depths.
Enough rifling. (Back.)
You retract your hand from the man's pockets.
Branch
Socks... extremely softcore.
Reliable-core. Though operants are encouraged to submit new proposals for in-theatre practises, if so inclined.
AVERAGE RESPONSE TIME: SIXTEEN YEARS.
Search his pockets again.
Your hand slips back inside.
Be thorough this time, operant. Gather all.
Branch
I'll do what I can for you, PSEUDOPOD. [Leave.]
Alternative wording
Nothing more to be done here. [Leave.]
Alternative wording
"I'll be back later." [Leave.]
Branch
Branch
"..."
Your double is indifferent to the world.
Your double didn't notice your arrival -- he doesn't notice your departure either.
Branch
Branch
Your double's chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, oblivious to your thoughts.
Staring at the frail shape in bed, the old prisoner's words echo in your mind.
We must imagine PSEUDOPOD happy.
Must we?
We must.
"Think about it: You and me, just like it was supposed to be. A modern, experimental espionage duo."
Say nothing.
You approach your double's bedside. His breathing does not change.
Branch
Branch
You return to your double's limp body.
Alternative wording
You return to your double's splayed, upturned body.
Branch
Branch
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HE APPEARS COMMITTED TO HIS REACTIONARY WAYS. UNFORTUNATE.
Branch
Breathing gently on his chair, he could be a sleeping child, but for the wide-open, lightless eyes.
Splayed on the chair before you is a man, approximately mid-thirties. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm as he stares beyond you, unblinking.
Alive, yet not alive.
"Hello? PSEUDOPOD?"
His eyes are fixed glassily on the ceiling.
The pupils quiver like a failing heartbeat.
Branch
"Hey! Why aren't you talking anymore?"
He's been like this since you walked in. Anything to the contrary should be marked down as a 'grip-on-reality'-type problem.
Branch
Look at the ceiling.
Cream paint, peeling slightly. A small room in a city past its prime. Nothing to suggest why the man is so interested in it.
Touch his arm.
No response. No jolt, no tremor.
All posts deserted.
They're going to pin this on you, obviously. That's why you're here. This is a big set up.
Branch
Check for injuries.
Your eyes crawl over his body, looking for needle marks as well as bruises, laceration, strangled blood vessels.
You find none.
A shiver flutters through you like a stray bat.
Branch
Look in his eyes.
The green of long-corroded copper.
As for the face around the eyes, his jaw hangs slack, his glasses askew. The lopsided headphones accentuate a large bald spot atop his crown.
A bald spot so pristine simply cannot go unrubbed.
Rub his bald spot, for luck.
Highly pleasing rubability.
Branch
Now your prints are all over him! The trap is sprung.
Fuck!
Too late. Officially, you did this now.
Branch
Wipe your hands on your pants.
Now your prints are on you too.
Give his head a reassuring pat.
The man seems no more or less assured than before.
Don't touch him.
You leave him exactly as you found him.
Study his clothes.
Stiff-collared shirt, a snug brown jacket... and nothing below the waist but a pair of red briefs.
White spindles of leg hit your vision like a pair of flashbangs.
Must be a natural defence system. (Blink it away.)
Entirely unfit for purpose, based on his current state.
The prey animal's final defence: Playing dead.
Once your eyes readjust, you notice that the man is also wearing three layers of socks, each slightly shorter than the one beneath it.
This detail strikes you as very sad.
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I'm missing something. This doesn't add up.
As your eyes reach his feet, you notice that the man is also wearing three layers of socks, each slightly shorter than the one beneath it.
Is this a... 'self abuse session'?
Being a lone operant in a foreign theatre is an extreme pressure role. Some require extreme release.
Check the area around him.
There is no smell of alcohol, nor any open containers -- no drug paraphernalia either. Just a loose cord trailing to the stereo system.
It reminds you of a cosmonaut's safety tether.
Branch
Check his vitals. (Proceed.)
Your fingers detect a faint, steady pulse within the base of his wrist. Elevated, but not critical.
WHEN IN-THEATRE, AN OPERANT MUST ALWAYS PREPARE TO BE ASSASSINATED. OF COURSE, IT IS BETTER NOT TO BE KILLED.
But he's not dead yet.
THEN THE BODY IS DISOBEDIENT AND MUST BE BROUGHT TO ORDER.
There's a procedure your controllers taught you for situations like this, but all you can focus on is his face.
THEN THE BODY IS DISOBEDIENT AND MUST BE BROUGHT TO ORDER.The graze of an invisible hand.The first casualty of an undeclared war.If it is self-annihilation, it's nothing to do with you. Probably.Maybe he learned he was to be paired with the storied Operant CASCADE and took matters into his own hands.If so, his affliction is beyond your diagnostic power.
The man's eyes glisten. Bright red veins blossom around their edges.
Branch
I've let him down.
Alternative wording
Another friend I've let down.
He could be cursing your name or chanting absolution. It's impossible to tell.
However he ended up like this, the result is the same: Operant lost.
He could be cursing your name or chanting absolution. It's impossible to tell.If so, you've walked right into it. Forces are in terrible motion, gliding like spirits across your plane of…There may be little opportunity for a second, based on the current visual.Branch 680Far above, the stars remain fixed in their sockets.
You wonder briefly how much, or how little, you owe him.
Your operant. Your double. You.
This must be some kind of set up.
Alternative wording
Around us, dark forces are pursuing deeper schemes. I'm being set up.
If so, you've walked right into it. Forces are in terrible motion, gliding like spirits across your plane of understanding.
Alternative wording
If so, you've walked right into it. These forces are in terrible motion, gliding like spirits across your plane of understanding.
First impression: I can't work with this.
Alternative wording
First impression: He fucked it.
There may be little opportunity for a second, based on the current visual.
Maybe this is temporary. A chrysalis stage.
If so, he will have to become something else entirely. You both exist now in different futures.
Branch
Far above, the stars remain fixed in their sockets.
Someone tried to take him out.
No vomit, no discolouration on the skin -- no bruising or signs of struggle, and if it's poison, it's a bizarre strain.
None of which precludes professional assassination.
The graze of an invisible hand.
The first casualty of an undeclared war.
Botched suicide?
You can see no final note or message around him. And more importantly, no obvious way he could have committed the act.
If it is self-annihilation, it's nothing to do with you. Probably.
Maybe he learned he was to be paired with the storied Operant CASCADE and took matters into his own hands.
Hrrm. Seems medical.
If so, his affliction is beyond your diagnostic power.
The film is monochrome and silent. The only soundtrack is the low hum of the projector as the celluloid rushes from its spool.