He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.

He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.

Your double gives you a brief nod as you approach. From above, a beautiful young woman looks down over both of you.

Alternative wording

Your double gives you a brief nod as you approach. From above, Ultra Violeta looks down over both of you.

Alternative wording

Your double gives you a brief nod as you approach, his hair wet and drooping from the rain. From above, Ultra Violeta looks down over both of you.

Alternative wording

Your double gives you a brief nod as you approach, his hair wet and drooping from the rain. From above, a beautiful young woman looks down over both of you.

KALEIDOSCOPE said that this is where he gave him the red disc.

All traces of fear, gone.

"That's her, isn't it?" He gazes up at the poster. "Melita."

Replaced by a different type of affect.

Look up at the ad.

The face of the high queen of Luzian electro-pop towers above you, light gracing her features, radiating an impossible warmth.

She was his psychopomp. She carried him away from this world.

"Melita..." Your double frowns at the advertisement.

The boy who shouldn't be, looking at the girl you sold.

You have a track record to uphold with tying up loose ends. Sort it.

Does he remind you of her? Another victim of techno-fascist wizardry, not here of his own volition.

The woman gazes down on you, light gracing her features, radiating an impossible warmth. Below, two words declare:

ULTRA VIOLETA.

Every freckle and shadow seems to have been mathematically arranged for the image. She is, without a doubt, a Luzian popstar.

The red disc in Foto 24, the one PSEUDOPOD was listening to the night before your arrival -- this is what did him in.

"You were listening to this, weren't you?" (Show him the Red Disc.)

He glances at you, at the disc, at you again and then recoils in fear.

"Stop saying 'Melita' in public."

"But it's in my head. All the time. And it's so loud." He gazes at the poster. "That's not her, is it?"

"That's Ultra Violeta. Some idiot girl who was surprisingly valuable."

"Valuable?" He frowns. "I can see why. I wanted to keep running, but she stopped me."

A lullaby of resignation.

"She means something." He pushes his glasses up, gaze set on the girl. "Who is she to me? It's almost as if I know her..."

"It was a disc of hers that zeroed you out. A strange new kind of weapon."

"Zeroed out? But... I'm right here." He looks down at himself. "Although it doesn't feel like it."

"Whatever happened... happened to me -- why me?" He turns to you.

The prisoner Dante warned you the quality of the device's work was highly variable.

"I should've been there for you, but I wasn't. I'm sorry."

"That's okay. We all make mistakes. I think I make the majority of them, though." He closes his eyes.

NO HOARDING! PREPARE FOR RE-DISTRIBUTION!

"I'm sorry. I really don't understand what's happening. It's like I've been away for a long time." He taps his foot, restless.

His steps trace no further back than the first floor of Foto 24.

"I thought that this woman must be Mel -- because of the glow. It's how her voice feels inside my head. It makes me stand still, makes me listen... only my heart keeps moving." He smiles.

"When we speak, I wrap the phone cord around my finger." He exhales softly. "I like the way it connects us, like a safety tether."

He wants mömmy too?

"I want to feel her close to me. I want to feel her skin against mine." He smiles. "Why do I feel that way?"

Fuck. Fight. Protect what's yours.

Another box best left unopened.

More importantly, why do you feel that way?

"That's because I love her."

"A dilemma then. I don't like the idea of a world where only one person can love her." He fixes his mouth in a grimace.

This is taking on psychosexual dimensions now. You really have to shut him up.

"Something's wrong with my mind. I feel there's this dark longing following me wherever I go. Then I turn around... and you're there."

A hush falls over the city. Two million bystanders, eavesdropping.

Bruised and swollen clouds gather overhead.

"I'm terribly sad that no one cares about alpaca wool. Why am I so sad about this?" He looks down. "I'm not supposed to be this way."

"That's because you're not you. You're me. An imprint."

"Is that it? I'm not sure what that means." He barely glances at you. "I'm pretty certain I'm me."

"Who do you think you are?"

"I've been asking myself that." He purses his lips. "Over and over. But there's never just one answer."

"It's a complicated question. Lots of people struggle with it."

He closes his eyes as if to consider the notion.

Your memories make you who you are, you memory-killer.

"I'm Hershel Wilk." He purses his lips. "Lead import agent of the People's Im-Ex Bureau. My specialty is hosiery."

"I also seem to be familiar with how to procure anticholinergics and three classes of nerve agents. I have strong opinions about the OKR Strelets-71 auto-pistol, due to its sub-par slide rack."

Mr. Copy-Paste makes a good point. They should've called it Strelets-Buy-a-Knife due to its terrible craftsmanship.

"And why would a sock importer know that?"

"International commerce is ruthless." He adjusts his tie. "It makes sense that the People's Republics would prepare its trade agents for any eventuality."

"Isn't it more likely that you're simply posing as a sock importer?"

"I can identify eleven blends of cotton by touch alone. I can hold forth on the difference between alpaca and vicuna when it comes to thermal absorption. Do you even know what a vicuna is?"

No references found. Probably some kind of sportscar?

"I know socks. That's what I am." He winces.

Operant, this has gone on long enough.

"I can work with that."

"I'm glad, because I'm going to need all the help I can get sorting out this shipment fiasco." He winces.

"Or, what if you're a massive loser who actually reads his assignment briefs?"

"Briefs and technical sheets are treasure troves of information." He shakes his head. "Still, I'm hurt by your tone."

He really isn't.

"You're not a sock importer, man. You're a spy."

"You don't know me. You don't know who I am. Name my favourite weave pattern -- you can't." His hand twitches.

"My name is Hershel Wilk. I'm a spy for the Opera."

"I feel like I'm supposed to be a cold and uncaring machine -- and it hurts. I have friends, but I don't know what I've given for them to be my friends." He winces.

"I don't feel like I deserve them... and I don't know what to do."

The slightest of shivers passes through him.

"I feel that I'm a piece in a game whose rules and end-states are incomprehensible. I can feel the hands of the players hovering above my head." He gestures with his hand, vaguely.

"Are you like me, or are you one of them? I haven't decided yet." He exhales.

We are gäng, PSEUDOPOD.

Two bullet holes in the third car of the motorcade.

"I'm here for a job. That's all. Self-reflection is for the soft and underachieving." He gives you a hard look.

Never stop never stopping.

"But that's just a name and title, I feel no attachment to either. I'm not even sure they're mine. Would I miss them if they were gone?" He looks across the railing, into the dark.

There's nothing down there either.

"That's fine. Just tell me what comes to mind."

"It's a basic question, man."

"Melita told me to 'shut you up'. You know what that means?"

"She... wants you to hurt me?"

His voice breaks. The audible beat of a shattered heart.

"I'm sorry. This was my fault."

"I don't... understand. How could she..."

His face crumples as he turns from you.

"Women, right?"

"Is that, normal? I don't... understand. How could she..."

"You're an abomination. There's nothing to do for it."

"But I'm not doing anything. I'm just here."

"I'm not going to."

"T-Thank you." He stammers.

"I can't let you run around like this. You're dangerous."

"Am I? I don't feel dangerous."

He looks up at the projection and whispers something softly to himself.

'Tell me what to do...'

"... I'm lost in this world."

"I do, and I can understand why. There's something wrong with me." He rolls his shoulders, as if stretching. "Are you going to?"

"You seem oddly fine about this."

"I really don't know what to do in a situation like this. I have no experiences to draw on, no reference points -- what was I supposed to do?" He looks down at his feet.

"What Melita says, goes."

"I understand. If she asked me, I'd do the same. It feels... good, to be used by her." He looks down at his feet.

"No."

"What else is to be done?" He adjusts his glasses and looks away.

Tell yourself who you are.

He is you.

"You know who you are."

"I don't. I want to go back to how I was before, but I can't remember, I can't..." His brow furrows.

Help him understand. You can't change your past, he no longer has one. What matters is why you're here now.

"We can't change who we were -- we can only change who we are. Here, now."

"You mean for my friends. Our friends. Right?" He fiddles with his cuffs.

"You need them."

"I just know that they're out there. And that I've hurt them."

Those closest to heart.

"You know their names, don't you? Tempo... Karolina..."

"Eszti... HOLOCENE..."

"Ramses... Vespar..."

"The Whole Sick Crew. That's them, right?"

One of us! One of us!

"And where I am... there's you..."

"I don't want to disappear -- again. Whatever our assignment is, I'll be there. We'll do right by them this time, won't we?"

"Welcome onboard."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll lay low until you need me. I... think I know where you'll find me."

You watch as his bald spot drifts into the purple light toward the Fogged Mirror.

"Of course."

"Of course." (Lie.)

(Show him the old crew photo.)

He thumbs the picture-glass gently.

"They need you."

"Yes. I have to make right by them."

"The shadow games have gone on long enough. I'm tired of being a token, I think you are too."

"The overwhelming structure, coordinated and calibrated. Impossible to 'win' according to the rulebook we'll never be permitted to glance at."

"So we flip the fucking table."

He looks over the railing at the canal passing below.

"A game of this scope and complexity requires more pieces than just us." He turns to you. "There are others, aren't there?"

"There's a game above the game, PSEUDOPOD. That's what we need to be playing."

"It doesn't matter. Blank your mind. Spy or die. It's the only way."

"What about the gnawing, caustic void I feel in my heart?"

Kicking, screaming, biting legs.

"It's called 'results'. Don't stop moving."

He looks over the railing at the canal passing below.

"The assignment. It's too big for two, isn't it? We need more..."

"A sign that you're not spying hard enough."

"The decisions have already been made for us -- it's only a trick of perception that we seem to be experiencing them for the first time."

"If that's true, then nothing really matters. Our origins, our destination, the distance between. All the same."

"If nothing can change then logically there's nothing to fear."

"Yes, I suppose one may draw comfort from that. But then, who else is on this journey with us?"

"So just enjoy the ride, PSEUDOPOD."

"Thanks. I'll try to 'let it out' every now and then." He smiles. "But then, who else is on this journey with us?"

Namby-wamby playtime is over. What your double needs now is mental defibrillation.

"I don't know what to say -- I'd probably kill myself in your situation."

"What?" He stares at you, dumbfounded.

"If you don't have a past, do you really exist?"

"I think -- I think it's you who doesn't have a past."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa. What do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're obsessed with me. Because you are me, but your psyche is too fragile to accept it!"

Uh oh.

"I thought maybe you would come to this realisation on your own, but I see now you're in even worse shape than I feared." He shakes his head. "It was a mistake to leave you alone."

"So we're... working together?"

"The assignment comes first. I'll lay low in the Fogged Mirror until you come to your senses."

"As long as you help me zero out the Grand Lich, you can believe whatever you please."

"Face it, PSEUDOPOD. You're me. Fake me. Lesser me. Sub-me."

"You've got it backwards, operant." His voice is cold and even. "It's you who's me."

"All you do is remember things wrong. No wonder you have no idea who you are."

"I don't remember things wrong." He stiffens. "I think you remember things wrong.

"I don't know what to say -- I'd probably wang myself in your situation."

Remind yourself of who you are.

You forced the imprint. Show him the device. Let it do the talking.

"Your consciousness was no more, so I imprinted mine upon yours." (Show him the device.)

He instinctively leans back as he regards the device warily.

Like a bomb.

Now let him try to deny the power of the machine-god.

"But... how? What about the socks?" He looks up at you.

"There were never any socks. You're a spy."

"But... how does that prove that I'm you?"

He needs to see for himself.

"Don't look at me, look at the thing that made you."

You were never meant to be alone. This is your double. The archives are full of relevant materials.

"We're spies, not import agents. We work for the Opera."

"Why do you keep saying that... 'the Opera'. What does it mean? Operation, operable... operant..." His eyebrow start twitching.

Second floor, section H.

"We've been in the freezer for five years. This is our first assignment back in-theatre."

"The freezer? You mean... Satellite Facility B." He stiffens.

Row 16. The file closest to your heart.

"We're from Mircea originally. But we had to leave when the monotheists seized power. We were recruited not long after."

"The protests... I remember them. Shot?" He moves his hand toward his chest.

"We were supposed to meet with one of our old assets. Tempo del Sur."

"But something happened to him. Something happened to me..." He looks away, disturbed.

Face it, your double is immune to facts and material evidence. No recourse but an appeal to his delusions.

"Listen, trade agent: Your sales were too high, your weaves too fine. Your rivals couldn't take it, so they came for you."

"Yes, my rivals... it makes sense, but which?"

"EMTERR, the polyester hand of transnational capital."

"That explains these strange happenings... the liberals, they won't stop fucking me."

"We cannot suffer them to live."

"Come with me. We're going to slay the Grand Lich of Techno Hosiery."

"You can trust in me. He'll never hear me coming -- my cotton blends are crafted for stealth."

He grins with the maniacal intensity of a man who thinks he's found a weakness in god's armour.

"I'll lay low until the time is right. You'll know where to find me."

"The Luzians, clad in advanced techno hybrid blends."

"That explains these strange happenings... I'm being targeted by techno-fascists."

"Your internal rivals, inside the Im-Ex Bureau."

"That explains these strange happenings... my extremely jealous and horny detractors."

Shut yourself up.

An assignment with two leads is a dog with two heads. A slobbering affront to god. Put your double in his place.

We are gäng and he is us! We support him -- don't do it, Hershel!

Kick him in the fucking head.

Your double gazes up from the ground -- dazed, glasses askew, eyes unfocused.

"PSEUDOPOD?"

He nods. Not quite looking at you, but with a growing smile.

Kick him again.

That's more like it.

A surge of violent blood rushes through your veins as you regard your handiwork.

Why? He was supposed to be gäng...

A shudder passes through you.

Your handiwork looks back, with a new expression. The same one he had when you first found him.

"I'm sorry, PSEUDOPOD. I didn't mean for it to go like this."

"..."

Hershel... he was one of us...

He shrugs, still smiling.

"I'm so sorry, PSEUDOPOD..."

His expression of idiot compliance does not change. He only gives you a simple nod.

There. He'll never talk back again.

CASCADE AND THE INVALID TEN THOUSAND YEARS.

"..."

You watch the husk animate itself in the direction of the Fogged Mirror.

"Say something."

"We've got a Lich to kill. Can you take orders?"

"Don't forget: I'm the lead."

"Shit. I meant to kill you."

"Shit. I meant to wang you."

He's no longer you, nor is he him.

Don't do this to us, Hershel!

You ready your body to strike, but it feels scary -- he is you after all. Is this suicide?

Close your eyes and double kick yourself.

You try to kick with both legs -- one for you and one for the you-that-is-not-you. An Opera technique, maybe.

With no legs to stand on, you find yourself on your back, crumpled up like a paper ball.

"Hang on, let me try again."

Your double stares down at you, a confused and slightly disgusted expression on his face.

That must have been exactly how you looked when you first found him.

"Help me up?"

"That was the infamous 'double grasshopper kick', first attempted by Operant PROBABLE in 72."

"You remember."

His hands start to shake while beads of sweat form on his face. He exhales.

"I see now why Melita made me lead. You're utterly unfit for this assignment." He shakes his head. "It was a mistake to leave you alone."

"Still, the assignment comes first. I'll lay low in the Fogged Mirror until you get yourself together."

"How would a sock importer know that?"

"I would've landed it were you not such a freak."

"The Opera. You remember."