"..." His idiotic expression remains unchanged.

"..." His idiotic expression remains unchanged.

"Uh... should you be drinking?"

"..."

Right. Alcohol is known to damage the brain, after all.

The real question -- how did he get them to serve him?

"How did you get them to serve you?"

"..."

"What are you having?"

"..."

Transparent liquid, normal glass, ice cubes and crushed leaves. Appears to be something-tonic.

"You don't mind if I have some, right?" (Drink.)

Tonic water and cheap vodka. There's no way for it to go wrong.

He remains motionless as you put his glass back in front of him.

"Cool, cool."

" ... "

"Your business, I guess."

"..."

"The assignment. You're in, right?"

" ... "

UNQUESTIONING, UNWAVERING ACCEPTANCE. EXACTLY WHAT THE PARTY DEMANDS.

Something about the look in his eyes tells you he'll be with you till they come to mop the blood up.

"What special skills do you bring to the table?"

" ... "

Utter impenetrability in the event of capture. No torturer is breaking through to this one.

He's a good luck charm. A rabbit's paw you wear around your neck.

"Can you at least handle a gun?"

" ... "

He takes a mechanical sip from the glass in front of him.

The autopilot is immaculate, all things considered.

Opposable thumbs- check.

"Are you flexible, in terms of who you'll work with?"

" ... "

No complications whatsoever. If he'll work with the woman who lobotomised him, he'll work with anyone.

"Excellent. I expected nothing less from you, PSEUDOPOD." (Go back.)

" ... "

"I'm gonna rub your bald spot for good luck. I hope that's okay."

" ... "

"That wasn't actually a question, I'm just gonna do it." (Rub it.)

The smile remains immobile on his face as you reach for the shiny little smooth patch and give it a rub.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

The paleolithic huntress exhales as she fondles the precious river stone, the primal superstition inside her calmed -- for the moment.

"Sure, fine. I respect your autonomy."

" ... "

Rub his bald spot for a dose of luck.

"..."

A familiar immaterial sense of wellbeing is transmitted from the bald patch straight to your soul.

"Thank you."

"..." He smiles on.

"Ahh, that's the stuff."

You rub and rub, but feel nothing.

You are milking your lucky cow dry, take it easy on him. Once a day is more than enough.

"..." He smiles on -- content, but barren.

"Always a pleasure talking to you, PSEUDOPOD." [Leave.]

"..." No change is registered.

"..."

The vacant smile hits you like a bag of bricks.

A mixture of guilt and the desire to lobotomise him even more comes over you.

I feel bad, but his face just looks so stupid.

"..."

He has been subjected to the 'Hershel Wilk Special'. The history of all your former assets, condensed into just a few days.

Regardless, your double has managed to make it to the Fogged Mirror, where he is sitting, and with a drink in front of him at the table.

Still no pants on him, though.

I did this to him. He would be at least semi-functional if it weren't for me.

"..."

Still better than running around and being a threat to himself and others.

"..."

Is it?

The nagging idea that you should just finish the job accosts you.

Just take him on the assignment with you. He'll catch a stray one, and the problem will solve itself.

Melita wanted me to zero him out. This is mercy.

"The imprint returns." Messy drunk, he uncurls a lazy hand in greeting.

"First of all, I need for you to acknowledge that you're the imprint."

"Sorry, double. I refuse to lie to protect your feelings."

An obnoxious little mirror, well-worth the seven years of bad luck incurred by breaking him.

Am I really this insolent? Surely he didn't get this part from me.

That is a question of self-knowledge.

You are. He did.

Your desire to stay out of the freezer and prove yourself in the eyes of the Opera has clearly been foregrounded in his mind. You can use this against him.

Based on the reports from Constanz and Melita, he certainly wasn't like this before.

"I want you to accept the truth, goddamn you!"

"I would love for you to accept the truth, and yet here we are..." He opens his hands.

"Shall I buy you a drink, CASCADE?"

YOUR AUTHORITY, DEAD IN THE WATER.

"It's the least you can do."

"Barmaid, two more!" He drains what's left of his glass and holds two fingers up.

Lucia dryly pours out two glasses of schnapps.

"Cheers."

"Cheers. May the original win."

You both make the same awkward little gesture, tilting your head at the same angle as the glasses that you're holding.

Drink sullenly.

"A thank you would be appropriate."

You both make the same face as the foul schnapps hits your palate, suppressing the full-on grimace with a tight-mouthed frown.

"No, I don't want your imprint drinks!"

"Suit yourself. Barmaid, another!" He drains what's left of his glass and signals for more.

"You have money? How?"

He looks taken aback for a moment.

"The Opera has a budget for in-theatre expenses, surely...?"

Translation: you're paying for it.

"You have to complete your assignments to get your stipend, and you haven't done shit."

"Hrrm. Well."

"You know what you have to do if you want my help."

"But..." He heaves an enormous sigh.

"I... I'm the imprint. You're the original." Something cracks in his eyes.

All at once he internalises the defeat in his posture, the shoulders sinking in time.

He's not just saying it. He has actually understood.

Congratulations. You have made your point, and in doing so, you have toppled one of his few psychic pillars.

"Just checking in on my young imprint. How are you adjusting?"

"I don't know... I'm kind of familiar with everything I see, but I don't know anything. Everything's new, but, not in an exciting way."

Unfamiliarity without novelty. A hell of alienation.

"The memories are still unfolding. Every day I remember something new, but I can tell some of it is real and some of it isn't... Some I think are real memories, but of things I've dreamt, not lived -- or you have."

"Like what?"

"Well, today I woke up with the mental image of a man lying in a bed, no pants on, drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth. It wasn't until I saw myself in the mirror that I realised -- that's me. It was the memory of myself, through your eyes, that I was seeing."

"So that part's real, but then it all gets mixed up... I seem to remember trying o feed him some sort of pills and then waiting to see if he --that is if I-- got an erection." He shakes his head. "Bizarre."

No hint of accusation. He's convinced he is misremembering somehow.

"Yeah. Bizarre."

"There's more like that. I can't trust anything my mind gives me..."

"You want to know the worst part? When I think of that drooling man on the bed, all I feel is curiosity and revulsion, like I was looking at a specimen in a jar...."

You remember the feeling of inert PSEUDODPOD -- at once mundane and disturbing, like some piece of surrealist human furniture.

"But when I think of myself, of you, I also feel, just... shame and loathing. So it's like I got a double-dose."

"Get used to it. That shame is basically your home base."

"Yes, I've gotten that. It's alright."

He swallows hard. You can practically see him pushing the emotions and thoughts down his throat.

Lucid, self-aware -- this really isn't the worst version of yourself, all things considered.

"You're self-doubt is the result of techno-fascist thought insertion, designed to undermine our incredibly effective dynamic."

"I don't know, CASCADE. I think maybe we just don't like ourselves."

"Question less, spy more."

"You're right. Visualise results."

"One of those is my self-hatred, the other is my repulsion at an inert body -- neither belong to you."

"I... I appreciate that, CASCADE."

"The one part that is mine -- I still don't like how that drooling man looks. I would rather look like you." He looks you up and down shamelessly.

He strips you naked with his gaze, on his expression a desire that is not lust.

As though at a mirror that refused to respond to his movements.

"That part seems difficult to achieve."

"Maybe I'll just shave my head, so as not to be left with this bald spot."

Not the bald spot! The font of luck.

"Why don't you change your looks?"

"I wouldn't know what to do..."

"Those are some fucked-up dreams, PSEUDOPOD. You should probably see a therapist."

"You're not misremembering, I did feed you boner pills when you were vegetative."

"And? Did I...?"

"Nothing. Not even a twitch."

"Hrrm. Everything seems to be in its place, now."

"That's your question?"

"Wait, you're right -- why did you feed me boner pills?"

"Now you'll never know."

"It doesn't really matter." He sighs.

"Doctor's orders. He wanted to test how vegetative you really were."

"And?" A little too eagerly.

"Who cares, man? You're alright now, right?"

"Hrrm. Yes, everything seems to be in its place."

"So that part's real, but then it all gets mixed up... suddenly I'm talking to a monkey, and he's... I don't know, weirdly eloquent?" He shakes his head. ""Bizarre."

"That's not a dream, the monkey's called the King of Trade, he lives in the Bazaar."

"The king-?... No, you know what, never mind." He seems about to question you, but then lets go of it.

The information to process is simply too much. He has no choice but to roll with it.

"There's so many like that ... it doesn't matter which are true and which aren't, I can't trust anything my mind gives me."

"So you have some pseudo-memories of talking monkeys, so what? There are worse fates."

"I'm sorry, PSEUDOPOD."

"So that part's real, but then it all gets mixed up... some highly experimental stuff." He shakes his head.

"I think that's just how memory works."

"Maybe..." He shakes his head, unconvinced.

"That feeling will go away as you make your own memories."

"I can count on you for the assignment, yeah?"

"Of course. I don't know many things, CASCADE, but..."

"I know that it's important for me that I finish this. For us, I guess."

"And you'll work with whoever I ask you to work with?"

"Yeah, of course... Wait." He lifts a palm.

"Not everyone. There's this one asset who I really, really loathe. I don't have her name..."

"Hey, I don't loathe her, we just don't have a lot of chemistry..."

"So you do know who I'm talking about."

"Now that I think of it, I don't even have her face..."

"Just a strong feeling of being judged by someone... someone boring... and the desire to punch her in the face."

Like an epic romance from mythology, your hatred of Eszti echoes through your incarnations, undying.

"That's an exaggeration, I didn't want to punch her."

"I do." He looks at you with no shame.

He's like a laboratory where you can see what you actually think, stripped of all niceties.

"Yeah, that's Eszti. She sucks."

"Eszti..." He mulls the name over, familiar and despised.

"She won't be coming, anyone else?" (Proceed.)

"No. She's the only one, I think..."

"What does she look like?"

Say nothing. Wait.

"You know that, when it's all over... there's a chance the Opera might still consider you a liability."

"That'll be a question for if we survive."

He half hopes he won't. It would solve all his problems, a simple bullet to the head...

"Good. That's what I want to hear." [Go back.]

He nods silently.

"I'm sorry, I can't allow you to shave the rest of your hair.

"I know. You rub it for good luck."

"It doesn't feel lucky." He touches it mistrustfully.

"Why not?"

"You'll find out very soon."

"Okay..."

"I like to rub it for good luck."

"You... wait, what?"

"It's kind of a thing I did. While you were a vegetable."

"But... is that normal? I'm not sure people do that to each other."

All frames of reference have gone to shit. He's second-guessing his every conception of basic social norms.

"Yes. Very normal."

"If you say so. I'll trust you on this." He looks to either side, embarrassed and violated.

A tiny reflected Hershel stares back at you, framed in hair.

Rub.

An ancient and seemingly inexhaustible reserve of Luck.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

The paleolithic huntress exhales as she fondles the precious river stone, the primal superstition inside her calmed -- for the moment.

"Now do I get to rub something of yours?"

"No. Nothing for you."

"Seems lame. I suppose our relationship is non-symmetrical." He reflects.

"Rub your own bald patch, it's great."

You see him discreetly feeling for the top of his head and giving it an unconvinced rub.

It's never going to work like that. You have to believe.

"You can rub whatever you want, as long as it's not mine."

"Seems lame. I suppose our relationship is non-symmetrical." He reflects.

"Less talking, more rubbing."

"Doesn't seem like I have much of a choice, given you're my lead and all."

"It's my prerogative as team lead and original Hershel."

"Come on, please."

"Alright, this might sound weird, but I'm going to rub your bald spot for good luck."

Rub his bald spot for your daily dose of luck.

Without a word, he nods silently and obediently lowers his head.

A familiar immaterial sense of wellbeing is transmitted through the bald patch to you.

"Thank you."

He keeps staring down into the table as you withdraw your hand.

"Ahh, that's the stuff."

"You already did it earlier. Can you please... not?" He grimaces, helpless.

EXERCISE YOUR AUTHORITY, AND HE WILL FOLD.

"That's an order, PSEUDOPOD."

"Sorry." He lowers his head and meekly exposes the bald spot to you.

You rub and rub, but for some reason no luck comes through your fingertips.

That vibration that you can feel through his skull -- the prelude to sobbing.

You're milking your lucky cow dry, take it easy on him. Once a day is more than enough.

"Alright, don't worry about it."

"Thank you." He instinctively lifts a protective hand towards his head.

"Be ready. I'll call you." [Leave.]

"I'm here. I'll be here." He nods anxiously.

"Unfortunately, I literally don't have the money. There's your 'in-theatre budget'."

"So what you were really asking was for me to buy you another drink."

"PSEUDOPOD, what kind of a tab have you wracked up?"

"What?" He nearly jumps up in alarm. "I mean, I thought... CASCADE. Please."

"Fine." (Close his tab.)

"Thank you... Hershel." More than sigh, he gasps with relief and defeat.

ECONOMIC HUMILIATION. A BASE METHOD, BUT EFFECTIVE.

"My mind's not right, is it? I don't know who I am. It's all... mixed up."

"Don't worry. Just subordinate yourself to my power and everything will be alright."

"A-alright..." He looks up at you, a lost child in untrustworthy hands.

"Hey, cheer up, I just paid the world's highest bar tab for you."

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry. I just thought..." He lapses into silence and stares down at the table.

"Thank you, Imprint Hershel." He breathes a sigh of relief, but the arrogance returns quickly.

"I knew there was an in-theatre budget." He smirks.

"Careful, PSEUDOPOD. Remember that the Opera wanted to have you zeroed out."

"You and I both know that you've missed your chance to do it." He shrugs.

"If the Opera wants to zero me out, they'll send somebody else. And they won't want to, after this assignment."