Look, around your feet.

Look, around your feet.

Your gaze turns instinctively toward the ginkyo plaza.

Ginkyo leaves...

Yesterday there was a curtain of leaves, now simply a tangle of bare limbs.

On the ground, a pool of golden tears.

All across the world, subjects of the Illuminated Empire are looking at trees like this, and thinking of home.

The signal...

For the ritual to begin. Soon the Grand Lich and his entourage will make their secret pilgrimage to the War Criminals Shrine. And the Operant Bureau will rise to meet them.

To redeem the failures of your past.

Your blood beats a kick-drum rhythm behind your ear.

Yellow leaves swirl about your feet.

Look around.

The naked branches seem like a mass of fingers pointing in every possible direction.

You have the pieces to form a viable squad, but are they the right pieces?

Ask the paleolithic part of your mind: Would the ancient huntress stalk the megalosloth with this band?

In the critical moment, when you're clinging to the beast's armoured back, seeking its life with your flint-and-bone dagger, will your comrades hold fast, or will they falter or flee?

You have everyone. The task now is to choose.

Look toward the roundabout.

Tuk-tuks putter about in an endless cycle, their drivers indifferent to the reminders of the district's halcyon days.

KINDRED. If she overcomes her fear of sleep she would be a loyal asset.

In the auditorium of a decrepit movie theatre, a young woman staves off sleep with a continual drip of artificial dreams...

Look toward the canal.

Swirls of dye runoff slide over the surface of one of the most polluted waterways in the Developed World. Nevertheless, there are those who make their home there.

RADIAN. Back on his medication he could be a valuable addition.

In an unmoored houseboat, windows lit with strobing lights, a bearded man prepares once more to sacrifice his body for the sake of prophecy...

Look way out, past the hills.

Past the Hill of Pigs, beyond the outlying neighborhoods, the city gives way to the desolate stretch known as the Pitol Tract.

HOLOCENE. Help him escape the wilderness of his own thoughts and he may work with you again.

In the bottom of an old rocket silo, a man in an eccentric bathrobe waits in his messy room for someone to save him from his own thoughts...

Look toward home.

Party Alley gives way to Orphanage Street, easy to miss if you aren't looking for it, and all the better for keeping secrets.

PSEUDOPOD. Sure, he's a blank canvas, but that only means he has infinite potential.

In the spare room on the ground floor of a twenty-four hour photo shop, a fleshy vessel that used to contain a man waits for someone to breathe new life into it...

That's enough. (Go back.)

The bare branches sway gently. The rest of the world goes about its business.

Pat your pockets.

You have two guns, for whatever reason. In no circumstance should you be caught empty handed.

I may've gone overboard with two.

Nothing to be done for it now. You might've used your limited time to uncover a deep secret of reality, reconnect with an old friend, or find that last wolf cup.

But no. Instead, you have two guns.

A strike against the Minister of Mass Culture demands a weapon of culture.

You have an ancient bomb, as well as the means to make it reveal its heart.

You have the means of metaphysical atrocity in your possession, but do you have the will to use it?

You turn back to the ginkyo tree. Its branches spread into many futures. If you had time, you might count them.

But I don't have time.

No, you don't.

My future's already been set and assigned.

All that remains is to walk backward into it, and watch the catastrophe pile up before you.

A message in search of its medium.

In a small recording studio deep in the Housing Campaign, a man slips his arms into an old military-style coat. He pops a tablet of pure L-theanine. On the desk nearby, a brown paper bag, reinforced with ultra-thin foil, waits for the head that will unleash its power.

Wait, what?

What-what?

No, seriously -- what?

The question contains its own answer.

Hrrmm.

Unfortunately, the thought of 'culture' simply makes you reach for the gun in your pocket. Perhaps that's really the best you can manage.

Alternative wording

Unfortunately, the thought of 'culture' simply makes you reach for one of the two guns in your pocket. Perhaps that's really the best you can manage.

The culture's in what I do with it. (Click your tongue.)

You have an ancient bomb, placed by your own predecessors. You only lack the means to make it reveal its heart.

A message in search of its medium.

COLD OR HOT THE WORLD CAN'T STOP FOR US.

What was that?

A fragment of an old song, flashing through your mind.

Hrrmm.

COME ON, HONEY, TAKE OFF RUNNING IN OUR PARTY SHOES

Forget it, I have everything I need.

Across the plaza, a breeze pulls an old takeout container along the tiles. You turn your gaze back to the ginkyo.

Maybe I can shoot them both at once?

No, you've not been trained for akimbo manoeuvres. Best to put that idea out of your mind.

Wrong, that shit should be forefront.

You have a gun, crafted by your own hand, a true representation of its owner.

It's going to blow my hand off, isn't it?

If it will, then it already has.

It's perfect. It's so me.

And you'll own whatever it accomplishes absolutely.

You have a gun, a professional tool for a professional task. In your pocket, it hums death's tune.

I feel so cool and safe with it.

Both of those sensations are illusions.

I need more time.

The falling leaves disagree. The mysterious negotiations deep within the ginkyo's archaic heart have reached their conclusion: This is it, there will be no more time.

You have today. Make of it what you will. Tomorrow, it ends.

What now? (Conclude.)

Your controller needs to know what's coming. She'll want to talk you through the assignment and your chosen squad.

From there, the momentum of events will carry you along their current.

The days are gone, only hours remain.

Breathe in.

Now is really not the time for breath-work.

Let's go.

The fallen leaves crunch gently beneath your feet. The day opens wide before you.

Alternative wording

The fallen leaves crunch gently beneath your feet. Morning unfolds into day.

Alternative wording

The fallen leaves crunch gently beneath your feet. The day opens wide before you.

Alternative wording

The fallen leaves crunch gently beneath your feet. The day crumples into dusk.

Alternative wording

The fallen leaves crunch gently beneath your feet. Night is already upon you.

High pressure coming in from the Noscorrentes means cooler and wetter times ahead. Questions remain as to when this change will come, best to prepare for all scenarios.