He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore PSEUDOPOD. He looks extremely uncomfortable.

He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore PSEUDOPOD. He looks extremely uncomfortable.

"Hm. Yes. Goodbye again."

(To PSEUDOPOD) "What's the matter, buddy?"

Alternative wording

(To PSEUDOPOD.) "What's the matter, dear?"

"..."

PSEUDOPOD may be a drooling carapace, but there are two operants deep within it. Something has drawn him to this man.

He's spotted a goon all by himself!

"..."

"Uh... he's drooling pretty bad."

Existentially and physically damaged as he may be, PSEUDOPOD has alighted upon an anomaly. There is something off with this man.

PSEUDOPOD's usually slack-jawed stare is focused, unblinking. Something about this man has set off his spy-senses.

(To the man.) "Have you tried shooing him?"

"Yes. He does not shoo. He does not anything."

"Here, give him one of these." (Offer him a hard gummy.)

"Oh." He looks at the gummy, perplexed.

(To the man.) "He likes hard candy. Have you got any?"

"I didn't bring any treats."

"What's in it for me?"

"Gratitude."

Shit reward. Gäng should stay on him.

Poor trade. PSEUDOPOD seems to be enjoying himself.

Stimulate your lobotomoid.

PSEUDOPOD isn't very well right now, but he does seem to occasionally respond to aural stimuli. Overstimulate him.

No, he doesn't. He doesn't respond to anything.

He came up here, didn't he? Try it.

Scream.

You scour your throat with an expulsion of air while the two men look on. One with horror, one with the classic lobotomy stare.

"Aah, why!" He puts his hands over his ears.

"......aaaaaAAAAAA."

AAAAAAA!

PSEUDOPOD wails. High, melancholic, primal. The sound dissipates until it is nothing but ragged breath.

"AAAAAHHHH."

"..."

"Kzzzzckchch."

PSEUDOPOD's eyes begin to water, his eyes turn red, but he does not stop making the noise.

"Attaboy."

"Damn."

PSEUDOPOD isn't very well right now. Try a perineal reset.

How do I do that?

Locate the perineal reset zone. On his perineum.

Find the reset.

"..."

Warm.

"What are you doing to him?"

"Resetting."

"He looks... bad."

"..."

Reset's stuck, you've done it too many times. Reset him harder.

(Keep pressing.) "It sometimes takes a couple of tries."

PSEUDOPOD turns to look straight at you.

"..."

Your double marches resolutely away, down the mountain.

DESERTER!

"I hope he'll be alright." He looks away from PSEUDOPOD's retreating back, down to you.

(Turn to the man.) "I think you should try."

"Do you have a paperclip?"

"Quiet, this is an advanced biological manoeuvre."

Silence as you swirl your finger around.

"Nah, he likes you." [Leave.]

Alternative wording

"I'll leave you gentlemen to it." [Leave.]

"Oh..."

Alternative wording

"Why hasn't he run out of air? Where is it all coming from?"

"..."

Alternative wording

"Kzzzzckchch."

"You boys still getting along, great."

"..."

"Please."

"Bye again." [Leave.]

"Right..."

"..."

"You. Do you know this man?"

Beside the man, PSEUDOPOD skulks. Pantsless, brainless, staring.

"..."

"What makes you ask that?"

"He has to be with someone. And I don't want it to be me."

Claim him, get gäng out of here.

"He's my husband."

A look of abject horror crashes across the man's face.

"Husband?"

He didn't fully buy it. More.

"What's the problem?"

"He is... very close."

"Could you get him away from me, please?"

"He tears this pussy open like a pack of wolves on a dead rabbit."

"In Canopus' name," he mutters, flinching from PSEUDOPOD.

"He tears this pussy open like a pack of wolves on a wanged rabbit."

"At least he was, before the 'incident."

"I'm sorry. What happened?"

"Kicked him."

"I see. I've heard of recreational domestic violence among the peoples of Portofiro but never imagined it to be so... effective."

"He perceived a universal truth."

"Ah, yes. I've seen that before. Poor man."

"Hit by a tram."

"Ah, my condolen- an aero-tram? How did he...?" He shakes his head. "No matter."

"I'm his carer."

"Great. Please could you... care for him. Elsewhere."

"Never seen him before in my life."

"Ah, well. Do you think you could... distract him?"

Sarcasm. He knows you're together.

"I said I don't know him."

"Yes. Well. Could you get him away from me? Please."

"How?"

"..."

"I don't know. Please."

"He seems happy where he is."

"..."

"But I am not. Could you get him away from me? Please."

"Same uniform."

He looks pointedly down at your underwear.

"..."

"He's... still like that."

The two men are still engrossed in tales of small children.

(To PSEUDOPOD.) "Can I talk to you for a moment privately?"

"No. I have no idea who you are and that would be strange."

Just think what you need to say really loudly. He's you, maybe he'll pick up on it.

(Lean in and whisper.) "We're going to mess you up, you fascist clown."

"Wh-- me?"

"You, the Lich, and your fat babies."

"Ahaha, yes. Baby murder, a popular Portofiran joke. You wouldn't understand."

"I don't care for it." He frowns.

"You'll just be a box of gristle and hair marked 'return to Luz'."

"Ahaha, yes, that's a good example of classic Portofiran gristle humour."

"Who the fuck else would I be speaking to?"

"Me, obviously! Good old Portofiran humour. Totally incomprehensible to outsiders."

Leave PSEUDOPOD to his plan. [Leave.]

"I trust you instructed your babysitter in a proper hot chocolate making technique before you left?"

"I didn't, but it's been on my mind... Should I have, do you think?"

"Okay, enjoy your babychat." [Leave.]

"Bye-bye."

"What does it taste like?"

"It's like..." the man closes his eyes, inhales, opens them again. "Salt. Wet salt."

What's 'it'. You want 'it'.

The man offers you a quick nod then turns back to PSEUDOPOD, completely engaged in their conversation.

"Hey, wet salt fans."

"Not me, my girls. You know the little croquetas you get at handball games? They loved them. I took them to their first match just before I came out here..." He looks away wistfully. "I've never been away from them for this long before."

"Turns out 'handball' is what they call pelota where he's from. Isn't that interesting?"

As he turns to you, he mouths something rapidly.

'Luz, Luz, Luz'.

"Oh! He's a goon."

"AhahahaHAHA!" He coughs, trying to cover what you've already said. "Anyway, what were you saying?"

"I had to buy them each a bag of those horrible fried shrimp. The bags were bigger than their little heads."

"Children do tend to be quite small. Exactly how small are we talking?"

Don't care. Don't care. Don't care.

"Oh, tiny. The best years, I'm told."

He reaches into an inner pocket and produces a square photograph, which he holds out delicately between giant thumb and forefinger.

Fuck our faces he's going for the bäby pictures. Polite interest -- we can do it.

The picture shows two pudgy toddlers, grinning over the horizon of the man's arms -- whose own smile is so broad that he's almost unrecognisable.

Identical twins.

You feel PSEUDOPOD's unsettling gaze on you.

"How do you tell them apart?"

"Oh, they're so different. Luna and Lourdes, see? Luna always smiles on the left side of her mouth, and Lourdes has more of an eyebrows frown when she's really thinking about something."

"Do you read to them at bedtime?"

Operant PSEUDOPOD seems to have forgotten about the assignment.

"Every night. Stories of our day; they like to hear about whatever we did. They have matching pajamas." He smiles to himself.

He's gone totally off script.

"Stunt babies."

"'Stunt babies'? Where on earth would I get those?" He shakes his head and tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"Maybe it's one real baby and one you imprinted on without consent." He looks at you pointedly.

"I'm certain they're both real babies."

"Where's their mother?"

"Also on a work trip. Very poor timing." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"Very fat. Cute."

"They are so much lovelier in person." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"Children make me incredibly uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll stop." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

Take it.

He withdraws the photograph from your grasp.

"Only look. Don't touch." He winces, apologetic. "It's my only one."

Quick reflexes.

"Not remotely."

"Interesting, yes. Sure."

"You should stop having this conversation immediately."

"No, thank you. I'm enjoying it."

Uh, you got distracted by your own eyes looking back at you. Probably trying to tell you that this guy is blatant goon.

"Good day!"

"Yes, a very good day -- we were just chatting about 'handball', which is what they call pelota where he's from."

"About my girls' first game. I took them just before I came out here..." He looks away wistfully. "Never been away from them for this long before."

"Isn't that interesting?"

"What are you two talking about?"

"This stranger was just telling me about 'handball' -- which is what pelota is called where he's from."

"I took my girls to their first match just before I came out here..." He looks away wistfully. "I've never been away from them for this long before."

The man nods to you then looks away.

Alternative wording

He ignores you, still projecting haunted despair out onto the ocean.

"You're back."

"I'm sure they're totally fine."

"Thank you."

"How do you make their cocoa?"

"Three parts milk, one part cream. Five squares of dark chocolate, a little honey..."

He looks down at his empty hands, imagining the mugs.

"They'll tell her what they want and they'll all have a lovely time."

"You think? Lourdes has a lisp. And Luna, she gets her words backwards sometimes... but I'm sure it will all be fine..."

He's nervous about today. Extremely nervous.

"See none of this would happen if you use packet chocolate."

"My girls wouldn't stand for it."

"Ah, so you are a cuisine professional."

"Where my daughters are concerned, of course I am."

"Good day to you." [Leave.]

"Yes, good day." He turns back to the sea.

"Hello."

Despite the impressive shrine behind him, the man is gazing into the distance, eyes out to sea.

Large coat, Luzian accent, on guard at the steps. Obvious Lich goon.

"Not into fraught history?"

"Hm? Oh. Shrine. It's very impressive. Glory to them."

He does not give a single fascist fuck about any deathless heroes.

"Do you think everyone knows how to make hot chocolate?"

"What? Why?"

"Mm. I left my girls with a babysitter for this work trip... and I never showed her how to make their cocoa."

IGNORE THE FASCIST'S OBVIOUS ATTEMPT TO HUMANISE HIMSELF.

"Look."

He reaches into an inner pocket and produces a small square photograph, which he holds out delicately between giant thumb and forefinger.

Fuck our faces he's going for the baby pictures. Polite interest -- we can do it.

The picture shows two pudgy toddlers grinning over the horizon of the man's arms -- whose own smile is so broad that he's almost unrecognisable.

FAKE BABIES. PROPAGANDA.

"Those are stunt babies."

"'Stunt babies'? Where on earth would I get those?" He shakes his head and tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"I hope they send me home soon."

He's never been away from them for this long before.

"After I'm done with you, I'll make sure to pay them a visit."

"Ah, yes. Portofiran humour. I have heard of this." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"Very fat. Cute."

"They are so much lovelier in person." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"Children fill me with an enormous sense of unease."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll stop." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

"Where's their mother?"

"Also on a work trip. Very poor timing." He tucks the photograph back into his pocket.

Take it.

He withdraws the photograph from your grasp.

"Only look. Don't touch." He winces, apologetic. "It's my only one."

Quick reflexes.

A ham-fisted attempt at creating character depth, predictable even for a fascist.

"No. Matters of cuisine should be left to professionals."

"Exactly. I'm right to worry. I left my girls with a babysitter for this work trip... and I never showed her how to make their cocoa."

"Yeah, shake the packet in the water."

"No! That's not it at all." He looks at the ground. "I was right to worry."

"I left my girls with a babysitter for this work trip... and I never showed her how to make their cocoa."

Look out to sea with him.

The ocean writhes horribly in the distance, each miserable droplet stained with the tears and piss of a thousand fish.

"Mm. Hello. Do you mind if I ask a question?"

Large coat, Luzian accent, guarding the access route to the top of the shrine. This is certainly one of the Lich's guards.

Tell him to kill the Lich.

"You know, you should really shoot your employer."

"Sorry, what? I was just thinking..."

Coat large enough to conceal weapons, Luzian accent, strategic position at the bottom of the steps... Lich goon.