Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.

Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.

This feels right. Maybe three is a magic number.

You always felt that way when surrounded by that number of your Crew.

For now, this will do. You've left a mark on this space.

You've left far too much Hershel in the room, CASCADE. This is a security nightmare of your own making.

Could I put up more?

The wall lacks the space to adequately acommodate more.

Feel like I've gone overboard...

You have simply been guided by impulse. It is your nature.

Don't deny potential pleasures -- revel in the excesses offered by the material world!

The Ombre Hombre and the Jefa Coffee lady are staged in complimentary colours.

Hang up the Jefa Red & Black poster.

The woman and her coffee watch over you -- mysterious, knowing.

Hang up the Ombre Hombre centrefold.

The Hombre, ever vigilant, watches you from the shadows.

With you while you enter the dark of sleep, and whenever you slip into the umbral realm.

Hang up the 'Reality Situation' flyer.

Bagman watches on approvingly as you secure his position.

The prophet staring back at the Prophet Lieutenant.

Never to be forgotten.

He was very grateful for the red disc.

Consider what you've done to the wall.

You step back and survey your decorative efforts so far: paper on paper, dwarfed by the enormity of the void that surrounds it.

Alternative wording

You step back and survey the totality of your decorative efforts: three insignificant posters, seeming all the smaller for the enormity of the void that surrounds them.

It's a bit shit, isn't it?

Shit or not, this is much more than what you had before.

Thousands of miles away, sad people in pressed suits wander the cold, hexagonal halls of Satellite Facility B, longing for a pop of colour.

This is nice. It seems warmer in here.

You've been starved of art, of colour, of life, for five years. It's more than nice.

A sense of composure bristles through you, strengthening your resolve.

I thought I'd feel... more.

Perhaps you are searching for the satisfaction that comes with creative work. For now, you serve only as curator.

That's all we've ever been and it feels right. Whether it's people, plans, or posters -- bringing things together is what we do.

I don't have anything to hang up. [Leave.]

The world is large and full of art. You need only to find it.

Express yourself or die boring.

I need to think about this. [Leave.]

The wall has no opinion of what you decide.

That's good for now. [Leave.]

Watchful eyes stare at you from the wall as you back away.

Brethren. Friends. Company.

A part of you left behind, shining bright across the room.

The wall feels less dreary as you turn away from it.

The Jefa Coffee lady and Bagman make an odd pair -- one in repose, the other never at rest.

The Jefa Coffee lady casts her mysterious smile over you.

The Ombre Hombre and Bagman, side-by-side, helping you fight reality.

The Ombre Hombre gazes moodily into the room.

Bagman's piercing eyes follow you around the room.

The blank wall beckons.

Peeling wallpaper hangs above your bed, uninspiring.

Faded patterns. A great void of expression.

This would be the perfect place to hang a poster.

A shadow from a passing aerotram crosses the wall momentarily.

As if the city itself is winking at you.

A flicker of light, arranged by the cosmos, as if to wink at you.

Real spies leave it blank.

The wall could easily host a pattern or a picture, should you have something suitable.

Have you considered engaging with the visual arts?

Before embarking on this distraction from your assignment, operant, consider the risks inherent to 'self-expression'.

This is missing something...