You return to one of the city's ancient benches. It welcomes you.

You return to one of the city's ancient benches. It welcomes you.

Sit down again. (Rest for a while.)

It sags gently as you settle in.

Operant CASCADE's first special bench. Filed: age 14. Location: Landau, capital of the Holy and Democratic Republic of Mircea.

What was special about it?

A slab of marble and cedar; cool, even in summer. The perfect place to hand-roll cigarettes and devour deviant graphic novels.

Patrolling cadres of Milites Sacrarii, clad in tallow-white surplices, never noticed you there. An early lesson in craft.

Hidden in the shade of Saint Erentudris' Basilica, three streets away and five years early to your appointment with a bullet.

I didn't want to be home, did I?

Your mother would've been gone for another weeks-long mystery trip, or demanding you rise to a bar she held just out of reach.

We only pieced it together a couple years later. Sniffing around her desk, finding the stacks of passports -- all under different names.

After some time, the present seeps back in. Your limbs don't feel as heavy as they did. Gently, Portofiro coaxes you back into its rhythm.

Deviant. Sounds like my stuff.

Pulpish black-and-white collections, printed and stapled together by clandestine presses. Space adventures, sex, violence -- thrilling contraband.

A snorkel to messier, louder, brighter worlds. Maybe you'd have never left Mircea without them.

I need quiet right now. (Dismiss memory.)

An hour passes -- the minutes unremarkable, neither pressing nor fleeting.

At last, you stand up, your limbs lighter than they were. Portofiro coaxes you back into its rhythm.

You sit, and the bench welcomes you with a creak.

As the minutes pass, you catch yourself scanning the surroundings. Lamp posts, trash cans, flower planters...

What am I looking for?

Microphones. You have to force yourself to remember, over and over: this is Portofiro, not Novessa.

Novessa sputters beneath an implacable leaden sky. Smoke billows from Obrekh furnaces. Stone gryphons leer down on Kalandar Square. Rail lines thread through blocks of dark slate and vermillion-streaked towers. The streets teem with people -- an endless, thrumming patchwork of crimson, charcoal, and indigo.

You miss them all terribly, for a moment. Or maybe you miss being lost among them.

After an hour of thought, the clatter of Portofiro pulls you back in. Slowly, you stand up. A rest for your legs, at least.

EIGHTY-TWO OUT OF EIGHTY-THREE NEIGHBOURHOOD COUNCILS VOTED IN FAVOUR OF CITY-WIDE SECURITY MEASURES. THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE MERELY APPROVED.

An hour passes, its minutes unmarked. Portofiro pulses in the background. Eventually, you stand up -- a bit more rested.

Let it be. (Dismiss the thought.)

You settle in once more -- a small rite of maintenance. For a while, the city asks nothing of you. Time simply passes.

The interconnected parts of you loosen, melting into the bench, until every sensation tells you that you have become one creature with the wood.

Before long, you stand up, feeling less worn than before.

People float by in the distance, trams rattle overhead, but all you care about is how your spine seems to be rippling with ease.

Though we might thrive when coursing with energy, we appreciate the downtime, sis.

You consider resting here, but can't justify another pause so soon. You turn back towards the city.

Sit on the bench. (Rest for a while.)

Maybe later. [Keep moving.]

You turn away from the bench. Rest will have to wait.

An old bench kneels in your presence. Its planks are bowed and scarred.

Marks to be revered from seating many people over the years.