"I really think you'd dig this. You look like the type."

"I really think you'd dig this. You look like the type."

Your asset extends the headphones toward you once more and nods at you to take them.

"Uh... alright." (Take the heapdhones.)

"I think you'll dig it. Not, you know... reinventing the wheel or anything, but it's a fucked-up sound."

He clicks play. Ambient sounds fill your ears. Birds and muffled footsteps. The city murmuring beyond.

What am I hearing?

From somewhere inside the mist of faint background sounds emerges, faintly, a deep voice, it's timbre distinctive even as its words are unintelligible.

The mic is in the vicinity of the speaker, but out of focus, his mouth pointed away from the receiver, liquifying the consonants.

"... Nunca ... -nd I had not... before."

"It doesn't work. Can't make it out."

"No, no, see, it's not mixed right, but for a live demo." He raises his eyebrows.

Make out what they're saying.

Though still quieter than the soft noises surrounding it, you focus on the voice until you distinguish its contours.

"... you know, apparently... related by blood to him.... -eral Domingo Encalada." The voice slowly becomes intelligible.

"My ancestors, they... -an't follow thar far... all factory caste."

You are listening to here. This place. Now.

Spirits invoked by a well-placed cricket somewhere in the shrine.

He pulled through. He was undercover the whole time.

Fully operational, your asset has granted you newfound surveillance capabilities, and you have no idea when he even set the bugs.

There is no undercover. This is just Ramses, doing what he does.

"Sometimes I wonder whether we lost ... -moved away from simple bloodline heredity... of course, viciado, and yet..."

"Perhaps it... -ery thought patterns that make me wonder this... same fundamental insatisfaction..."

"This is the Lich's entourage, isn't it?"

Your asset raises a single eyebrow at you.

Yes. These are your enemies.

"... mention it to Marta, she seems affected... place, Director General."

Director General. The asset with the airy voice addresses his superior by his formal title.

Ignatz was right. The head of the Weeping Eye is here.

Tesoro Buendia, the Hundred-Eyed Golem.

And in each eye, a tear. A hundred assets. A hundred vanishings.

Why's he personally chaperoning this field trip?

There is no one to answer your questions.

The only explanation is that the delegation is not what it seems. There is another motive behind the ceremony.

Around the ceremony, another ceremony -- above it, below it, enveloping it.

"Your point is well taken. Fervour sometimes ... against us. No matter. She'll..."

A crunch of leaves as they begin to walk away from the microphone.

Keep listening.

Ambient sounds once again overtake the dialogue as they step further away from the microphone.

"...when the day is over."

"Nice disc."

"Sick sound, isn't it? I thought you'd like it... that's why I recorded it for you.."

"Now... I think you probably need to get going, don't you?"

"Yes. Busy day."

He nods, closes his eyes, and goes back to aggressively headbanging.

"See you."

This is a terrible sign, isn't it?

Yes.

Metal sting of blood in your nose.

No problem. Two cunts, one stone.

Director General? But then...

The delegation is accompanied by the Director General of the Weeping Eye.

The delegation is accompanied by the Director General of the Weeping Eye.

What does this mean?

"Ramses, who are we listening to?"

"Ramses, did you...?"

"Listen." He presses a finger to his lips.

Just listen closely.

The more you listen, the more the voice becomes just one more element in the soup of soft noise.

"... -ou ... -paren... -ated... od.... -eral... -ada." Mutilated syllables reach you. meaningless and all the more frustrating.

It's a cricket, that much is obvious. Picking up a conversation happening right here, right now -- a live ceremony.

Listen harder.

"... and yet... -ans... inting ..."

"-y... -ors... -an't fol... -aste." A second voice: sober, airy, unintelligible.

Listen very hard.

" ... " Nothing remains of the voice but the occasional base note running through the whispers, like a record worn to disintegration.

The conjured spirits have fallen silent. The machine hums and crackles with failed ceremony.

"This is useless." (Give up.)

Your asset receives the headphones from you with a morose expression on his face.

"Bad production, I know..."

"In any case... I think you should get moving H."

"Sorry I doubted you."

"Didn't help. in the end." He shrugs.

"Go." He nods once.

"Yeah. I probably should."

"Sorry, I got nothing." (Give up.)

"Thanks for the listen." [Leave.]

"I... Alright." He seems hesitant to let you leave, but does.

"I hate ambient intros, man."

"Listen." Your asset brings a finger to his lips.

"No thanks."

"I really think you should listen to this disc."

Has he been smoking this whole time?

He's got something for you. Ears on your enemies.

"Have you been on a surveillance side-quest, Ramses?"

"What are you talking about? Nah, just -- plague metal." He pushes the headphones toward you like an insistent child.

"I don't have time to listen to a disc now, I just wanted to ask you something..."

"What could be more important than hearing a sick disc?" He looks you in the eyes.

Silently, he asks you to trust him.

Gone. Just gone. It was insanity to bring him on a hit.

"RADIAN, this is not the time for death metal!" (Break cover and hiss.)

"No, no - Plague metal, not death."

"And come on, I think you'll be interested to hear what's on this one." He looks you in the eyes.

"Fine. Quickly." (Listen.)

"Don't you dare Deaf Romero me." (Listen.)

The likelihood that he is playing a cover instead of having merely lost the plot drops by the sentence.

"Why?"

"Because it's sick." He looks at you incomprehendingly.

"I'm good." [Leave.]

"You should hear this. When you can. Your kind of thing." He slides the headphones back on and resumes his machine-like nodding.

"Ready to have your mind blown?"

Your asset peels off the headphones and extends them towards you once more.

Leaning against a statue with his headphones on and eyes half-closed, your asset nods his head rhythmically and blindly.

Oblivious.

RADIAN is a support asset, not a theatre-primed asset. Currently, he is an operational own goal.

Music? At a time like this?

"Trrrrrrrr!" He trills his tongue to produce a kind of aggressive purring.

Oral imitation of double bass blastbeats. One kick with two pedals thundering nonstop thirty-second notes.

It probably sounds a lot more impressive on an actual drum.

Motorcycle go fast, vroom vroom.

"Excuse me. Sir?"

"Hm? Oh, hey... Here, listen to this."

He abruptly opens his eyes and thrusts the headphones in your direction.

"You seem busy, I guess I'll leave you to it." [Leave.]

"Hey. Hey, you." His eyes snap open just as you are about to turn away.

Not so oblivious after all.

"Here, listen to this."

He slides the headphones off and thrusts them in your direction.

"H." He looks off into the middle distance and nods to a rhythm no one else can hear.

Your asset hasn't changed his position at all. Now and again the wind catches his beard.

"Ramses, we're supposed to be in disguise."

"Whoah, you think I like this trash?" He points to his band logo-emblazoned shirt.

He changed... his t-shirt.

Behind the customary barbed wire-tangled corpses, the outline of a riot cop suggests political rather than wanton violence, and the logo -- now that you look at it -- does seem slightly more intelligible than his usual fare.

"So your cover is... a lamer kind of metalhead?"

"Hungergrind clowns. Think it's all about righteous anger, totally missing the point..."

In the diffuse wilderness of Ramses' cognition, the line between irony and honesty is blurred to nonexistence -- and in this liminal space he is home.

"It's killing time, Ram. No more jokes."

"H, relax.... When the time comes, I'm here."

"Alright, Ramses. I trust you."

"I know you do."

It's unclear whether or not he's joking. Does he even understand the gravity of the situation?

"Uh... Yes?"

"Fucking... I'm into Plague, H. When have you ever heard me listen to this fucking Hungergrind shit?"

"Oh god, that t-shirt is your disguise."

"Ramses, it looks like the exact same shirt you always wear."

"What's your read on the crew?"

"What, the chainsmoking teenager?"

"Yeah, Yana."

"Fearsome. Kind of intimidating, in fact... says some off-colour shit." He chuckles.

"Reminds me of TAXMAN, in a way. But it's even weirder on her."

Yana is her own person now. You don't need to betray her trust just because Ramses picked up on some speech patterns.

"I think she just learnt from the best."

"Nah, it's something about the particular kind of foulness... but, whatever. We'll look out for her, Tempo brother." He glances to the sky.

"She is TAXMAN. What's left of him, anyway. She's an imprint."

"Oh." He nods as though this clears up all possible doubts. "Checks out."

Not a second of hesitation, doubt, or curiosity. You couldn't fake that kind of acceptance if you tried.

"No follow up questions?"

"Nope. As I said... checks out." He nods again.

"That's it? 'Checks out'?"

"Well, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, KALEIDSCOPE."

"Fucking... Competent, I guess." He shrugs and shakes his head.

"We used to beat up guys like that back in Rustam."

"I'm not sure you could, he's actually dangerous."

"About twelve teenagers? I think we'd be alright."

"It's an act of love, habibti."

In Ramses' imagination, the L-pop physically leaves Kaleidoscope's body in perfumed and colourful vapours as he is repeatedly pummelled.

"I thought you were a peaceful soul, Ram."

"So you don't trust him."

"Betray us, as such... he's not going to do that." He shrugs. "I sense he's genuine about music. It's just the wrong music to be genuine about."

"What about KINDRED?"

Your asset doesn't answer immediately and stares instead at his slowly-rotating cable.

He wishes you hadn't asked him that.

"Shouldn't have brought her, habibti."

"Hey, she's been building wizard shit while you've been twitching on a boat."

"Yeah, she showed me her tech, it's sick." He chuckles. "She's the best you could wish for, H, it's just, fucking..."

"She really thinks we're going to make it."

ALL PERSONNEL HAVE BEEN BRIEFED ON A NEED-TO-KNOW BASIS AND ARE SUFFICIENTLY AWARE OF THE RISKS.

Of all your assets, none knows better than KINDRED. Wilful ignorance is another matter.

A delicate ship constructed out of the flotsam of spy dramas and revenge fantasies sails headlong toward this rock, where it will shatter into a thousand lacerating crystals.

"I know, I'm sorry. I can't stop myself from ruining my asset's lives."

"Don't apologize. Definitely not to me." He shrugs, his grimace bittersweet.

"We're bound for the meat grinder, H. All of us. But you and I know that."

"This time will be different. This time they die."

"Them? Probably. Us? More probably."

"She joined of her own free will. Who am I to stand in the way of that?"

"I don't know fuck about free will, H, but I don't think she knows what she's getting into."

"She'll be fine."

"Probably none of us will be, H. But you and I know that."

"What about you and me?"

"I told, you, H... Bound for the meat grinder." He smiles pleasantly.

"You and me? Bound for the Meat grinder, H." He smiles pleasantly.

"Thanks for your take." (Go back.)

"No problem." He nods and resumes twirling his cable.

"What, the adult L-pop fan?" Ramses shrugs and growls.

Natural enemies.

A platonic loathing, based purely on musical taste. If placed in a jar together they would kill each other out of spite.

"We've got a couple hours to kill... you want to hang for a while?" (Proceed.)

"I'm down, H, but maybe you should..." He inclines his head towards Karolina. "She might need the hang more than me."

"Nah, we're good. You and me." (Proceed.)

"Cool." He nods. "A last breather."

You look out over the city as your companion produces the inevitable joint.

From this distance, Portofiro is just a cluster of dim lights in early daylight. Mist clings to it.

"You know we're going to die, don't you?", he says, amicably.

"Wait, you mean like eventually or right now?"

"I mean, we're talking maybe hours after the assignment is complete. Could be days."

"Weeks is a long shot."

"Don't be pessimistic, Ramses, we've got solid odds."

"The assignment has decent odds of succeeding, H. Our odds of surviving... three, four out of a hundred."

So not technically zero. Cool.

"Explain."

"It's a fact of life, fucking... your odds of survival after your kill someone are inversely proportional to the value of the victim."

"Is this some stoned theory you made up?"

"It's just the way this shit works, H. It's always been like this."

"You can kill a homeless man on your way to work, no questions asked. You can kill me."

"A businessman or a doctor or something? I'd say you have like one in two odds of surviving... kill a cop and it drops to one in ten like, fucking..."

The problem has been weighed carefully from the perspective of one who knows themselves disposable.

"Kill the Grand Lich of Techno-Fascism..."

"... And that's not even a dice roll, Hersh. That's not even roulette."

"It's the fucking lottery."

A lighting strike that finds you when it had the whole earth to choose from.

"Yeah, but we're the exception, Ram."

"I don't think I want to be that." He smirks. "Maybe worse things happen to the exceptions."

"Have I ever told you about Deaf Romero?"

You'd remember a name that stupid.

"I'd remember a name like Deaf Romero."

"Well, see, there was this label in Rustam back in the day, Strappado -- they did Death and Plague Metal stuff... they used to include an insert note with every album."

"It said: 'Listen in darkness and at maximum volume only'." And they spelt 'maximum' wrong, with two 'a's."

"So Deaf Romero, I mean... he was just Romero then, I guess, goes and buys a Strappado record, I think it was Semenrot, and can you guess what he does?"

"Listen to it in darkness and at maximum volume?"

"Ruptures both eardrums at first listen, just, zero to a hundred, one blast and it's blood running down his cheeks right there in his friend's basement."

The rapture. Biggest cortisol hit the body can deliver and take, a knife bisecting the brain in the wrong direction, then -- silence.

No silence. Only the Eternal Tone, the tinnitus ringing that will play on until the end of life.

"Beautiful."

"Fucking legend of the Rustam scene." He smiles. "I knew you would get it."

For better or for worse, he's pegged us and Deaf Romero as spiritual gäng of some sort.

"Lots of people talk, you know. Fucking Deaf Romero actually lived it."

"And I think we're about to live it, too. Deaf Romero style."

"We've been living it."

"Not like this, we haven't."

You have merely been living 'Hearing Impaired Romero'. Time to crank the volume.

"Ram, help me work through this anxiety instead of adding to it, please?"

"I just think it's better to just go into these things hopeless. Saves a lot of trouble." He shrugs.

"So you're being hopeless strategically?"

"Oh no, I do genuinely think we're going to die."

"Thanks for the advice, oh wise one."

"Thank you, Hersh."

"Well then it'll be a nice surprise if we do make it, I guess."

"Exactly. It's a little gift for the Ramses of the future. Provided, you know... he exists." Ramses flashes you a big grin.

"Say we do survive this assignment... what will you do afterwards?"

"Who knows? Maybe they'll give me that big demotion I've always wanted..."

The boat thing.

"The boat thing?"

"Yeah, the boat thing. Offshore radio operator... what a dream." He sighs and looks off into the distance, imagining it.

The sickly-green horizon of the Noscorrentes Sea encircles the lonely radio vessel 360 degrees.

No clouds. No birds, no fish, no people, just the lapping of the waves and fluctuating radio static, the occasional crackling of a very small fire.

"Sounds bleak, Ram."

"It's all relative, Hersh."

"Unlikely to happen, though. They'll probably toss our bodies in the Noscorrentes on the way back to Luz. I'll get the sea, not the boat."

The tram lines creak and crackle above you as the carriage lumbers into view, stained with mist.

"It's been an honour, habibti." He grins lopsidedly.

"Room for two?"

"Barely, I hope."

"Demotion?"

"Offshore radio operator... what a dream." He sighs and looks off into the distance, imagining it.

"If they send me back to the freezer I'll probably kill myself."