PSEUDOPOD shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the boatman.

PSEUDOPOD shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the boatman.

(To PSEUDOPOD.) "Can you tell me your name?"

"You can't be serious." He keeps scratching his scalp. "It's Hershel Wilk. Why do you care?"

The boatman turns toward you with a smirk.

Oh. It is you.

Calm.

"Are you sure it isn't Tomas?"

"Tomas? But that's a man's name." He looks at you, confused.

"You're not Hershel. I'm Hershel."

"Hershel? But that's a man's name." He looks at you, confused.

"What about 'PSEUDOPOD', does that mean anything to you?"

"Pseudopod. A temporary appendage, filled with cytoplasm, a feature of unicellular organisms." He hesitates. "What about it?"

You didn't know that.

Stop wasting your time. Fix this. Now.

"That's you. That's your name."

"No, it's not. My name is Hershel Wilk. Stop trying to confuse me."

"Forget it."

"The socks, Wilk. They're the priority here." He adjusts his glasses.

"Nevermind." (Drop it.)

"The socks, trade agent. They're the priority here." He adjusts his glasses.

This man is an Unknown Known, ignorant of what he carries inside him -- you can't let him go on like this.

(To the Boatman.) "He's been like this since he showed up?"

"More or less. Kept repeating the story he first gave me, as if we'd never met. Socks, Tempo, purchase orders." He shrugs.

"Yes, yes. I'm still trying to get some clarity, man of boat. From you too, trade agent." He glances at him, then you.

"He also started going on about how this was all his fault. Took a few minutes to stop."

You're superimposed on him.

We must accept that he is gäng. Someone get him a t-shirt.

Consider the notion.

He says that he is us. We feel him to be us. But who is he... to us? Our child? Or bröther?

Though we are confused about this shit, he has the gäng's full support. Maybe he'll turn out to be sick as hell?

Ignore it.

Your double scratches his bare thigh as he regards you with a mix of concern and suspicion.

How does it feel to come face-to-face with yourself?

He's a worse version of me. And I'm already quite bad.

Imagine how he must feel then.

I knew it was meant to be from the moment our eyes met.

There's no love like self-love.

I wish I had started expanding my media empire sooner, but this will do.

He's a man, not a franchise opportunity.

Not bad.

Give it time.

Ignore the feeling.

"Something weird about his eyes too. Restless. Paranoid."

"He threatened to 'pull apart my shit barge' at one point."

"He also mused about the connection between socks and entropy at one point."

"You know you're not wearing pants, right?"

"Pants?" He runs a hand through his hair. "What's that?"

"Clothes meant to cover your shame." (Point at his bare legs.)

"What shame?" He looks down and nods appreciatively -- at his socks. "These are regulation black."

"Forty-two percent combed cotton. Polyamide for tensile integrity. The length ends just below the patella. Primo stuff."

Spoken like a scholar and a gentleman.

"Ultra-long socks, basically."

"You're thinking of thigh-highs." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Acrylic is helplessly lame, out of the question. One may go for silk, but the slippage is unfortunate."

"In any case, professionals know thigh-highs are inappropriate for formal businesswear. Very disappointing of you, trade agent."

"Nevermind. We have better things to discuss." (Go back.)

"Obviously."

Demolish his persona.

Time to detonate a few psycho-semantic depth charges.

"Red corridor. Index zero."

"Those aren't... market terms." His mouth closes, opens, then closes again.

His breathing grows shallow, then intensifies. His hands are pale and shaking.

One last push.

"Who do you work for?"

He sways on quivering legs. His eyes attend, wide.

"Your fucking employer. Now."

"The Opera. I work for the Opera." Tears streak down his cheeks.

A name uttered like some ancient curse.

"Welcome back, PSEUDOPOD."

"It's all gone to shit, hasn't it?" He looks around. "I fucked it. Again."

We knöw the feeling.

"Nah. That part's probably residual-me."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" Another series of twitches courses through him.

"Seems like you've got quite a mess on your hands." The boatman glances at you.

He offers no assistance.

"Welcome to espionage."

"You need to get your man to a clinic. Whatever's going on with him..." He turns to PSEUDOPOD.

"Uh oh."

Where your double was just standing, there's nothing, not even a whiff of performance-weave cotton.

Lost. Again.

You look back over your shoulder, but the boatman has already returned to his own business.

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Stuff like this happens all the time."

"This always happens to me, it's completely unfair. I appear to be the universal rubbish bin."

"Sounds rough. You probably need to get your man to a clinic. Whatever's going on with him..." He turns to PSEUDOPOD.

"They set me up. This whole thing. A giant them-against-me production..." Another series of twitches course through him.

"Fuck it, I'll do it myself." Another series of twitches courses through him.

"My choices... not choices at all..." Your double takes in the bazaar and, slowly, his face settles.

"Don't worry. We're turning it around. That's what we're doing here."

"Come on, let's go."

"Come on. You know this."

"Steel floor. Tremble. Echo drift. Light fragment?"

"Dead." His jaw goes slack.

"Absolute magnitude. Empty room. Arc-light!"

"No..." Sweat beads along his temples. "You're not... I'm not..."

He's far too detached from reality. Forget the manoeuvre. Get him where it hurts.

"You got psycho-fucked straight out of the gate, loser-style. That's why we're in this shit-storm."

"I'll remind you we're here to advance the glory of the People's Im-Ex Bureau, not engage in uncomradely verbal abuse." He shakes his head.

Assert the truth.

"Forget the socks, man. We're spies. We work for the Opera."

A strange little twitch runs through his features. And then, slowly, a wide smile appears on your double's face.

Uh oh.

"I won't be misled. Socks are my passion."

"Your cryptonym is PSEUDOPOD. We're supposed to be working together."

"Forgive me, trade agent. I feel responsible for your delusions, though I can't say why I should." There seems to be something wrong with his eyebrow.

"You're with our rivals, aren't you? I can see through the warp and weft of your deceptions." His mouth sharpens into a caustic grin.

"I don't need you. This is a solo venture now." A visible shiver runs down his back.

Your double turns to take in the scene at the docks, though the look in his eyes suggests he's on an entirely different plane of understanding.

"For fuck's sake..."

"Anyone ever tell you you look intensely virginal?"

"I'll remind you we're here to advance the glory of the People's Im-Ex Bureau, not engage in petty bourgeois psychosexual games." He shakes his head.

"First of all: I'm the lead here."

"I'll remind you we're here to advance the glory of the People's Im-Ex Bureau, not engage in petty bourgeois status games." He shakes his head.

Help your double accept himself for who he is.

The sock merchant persona is pure projection, hinging on the ability to regurgitate a barrage of memorised details. But if one were to question it gently...

"Remind me, trade agent. How did you get into hosiery?"

"I've had a keen interest in sock importation since '81. I caught the nylon bug during my student days after witnessing a demonstration against high-priced hosiery. It turned violent and I got shot." He points to his chest.

"That's when I knew that the world needed to change its stockings. One pair of legs at a time." He turns his palms up.

Oh... what an odd combination of you and the cover.

"That's... that's something."

"There's more! I started moving up in the ranks until I became lead sock importer. I knew the suppliers, the fashion and the materials in-demand. I assembled a crack team of hosierists -- a sock importing ring. I called them my Whole Sock Crew."

"My career was brilliant. But something happened five years ago..." He closes his eyes. "Geopolitics intervened. Shadowy state backed sock conglomerates disrupted a major trade deal and made me miss my quota. Luckily, the Im-Ex bureau has given me another chance -- I'm back." He puffs out his chest proudly.

Here's your moment.

"Good, very good. So, Lead Sock Importer -- how come we're operating in this tiny backwater market?"

He looks around the docks. The rusty crane groans. A boatman hocks a wad of phlegm onto the stones. An empty paper cup rolls across the ground.

"What... are we doing here?"

Pfft.

His lips curl into a smile -- then thin abruptly as your reality dawns on him.

"Check your badge, 'import agent'. What does it say?"

"T. Esterman. My cover, obviously. My real name is Hershel Wilk."

"Very good. Why does a sock importer need a cover?"

"Why... indeed..."

"Did it hurt?"

"Greatness often does. I started moving up in the ranks until I became lead sock importer. I knew the suppliers, the fashion and the materials in-demand. I assembled a crack team of hosierists -- a sock importing ring. I called them my Whole Sock Crew."

Keep listening.

"I started moving up in the ranks until I became lead sock importer. I knew the suppliers, the fashion and the materials in-demand. I assembled a crack team of hosierists -- a sock importing ring. I called them my Whole Sock Crew."

Best to start with the most basic of facts.

"You're a spy."

"A what?" He glances at the Boatman, who shrugs.

Maybe something a bit more tangible...

"You're from the Superbloc."

"What point are you trying to make? I know where I'm from. What about our assignment?" His face reddens.

"There are no socks. You're not a import agent."

"Of course I am." He glances at the Boatman. "Who are you to talk to your lead like this? Who do you think you are?" His hands start shaking.

Maybe an appeal to relations?

Remind him we're all one gäng, indivisible.

"We're part of the same outfit. I'm a spy, too."

"If we're colleagues, it's only ironically." His upper lip trembles. "You've left me out to dry here, dealing with these uncooperative... suppliers."

"And you." He looks up at the boatman. "Where's my fucking shipment?"

"Believe me, if this boat weren't tied to this dock, I'd be very, very far away from you two right now."

"Far away..." A twitch runs through PSEUDOPOD's features. And then, a smile.

"I'm your friend. I'm worried about you."

"Only ironically. You're a pseudo-friend. Do friends eat each other's hard candy?" He huffs. "Why are you here?"

"Only ironically. At best we're colleagues, which is a shame, because you're obviously second-rate." He huffs. "Why are you here?"

"Cut the shit, operant. We've got stuff to do."

"I want no part in your petty bourgeois high culture -- keep it to yourself, trade agent." His eyes twitch.

"How about this, you handle the petty bourgeois high culture, I'll handle the real work. Sound good?" His eyes twitch.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." (Leave.)

The Boatman eyes you silently as you leave him alone with your double.

"Good move. Let's split up. I stay here; you interrogate the other vendors."

"You're not saddling me with this."

"Not my circus, not my monkeys."

"I think this is very much your monkey."

"Don't worry. I'm gonna find a therapist."

"Funny. Don't be long."

"It'll be quick."

"Doubt it."

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." He scratches his bald spot. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Alternative wording

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." Fading, amber light spills across his bare legs. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Alternative wording

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." The wind tugs at his bare legs. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Alternative wording

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." Quivering streetlight washes over his bare legs. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Alternative wording

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." His bald spot gleams in the sun. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Alternative wording

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." Moonlight paints his bare legs a ghostly silver. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Alternative wording

"Don't fuck with me, boatperson." Rain sluices down his bare legs. "The Im-Ex Bureau won't stand for trade obstruction."

Your pantless double stands before you, weight shifted onto his back leg. The posture is defiant, unconscious -- and terribly familiar.

A new suit, cut from old cloth.

Approach with caution. You don't want to startle him.

"Trade obstruction, that's what you call this?" The boatman is unable to take his eyes off PSEUDOPOD's bare legs.

"I demand to see Tempo. He's expecting two-thousand pairs of state-issued knee-highs. Are you going to help me, or not?"

Your double seems to have retained the outline of the assignment despite his recent coma.

Best to play along.

First, assess the situation.

"Listen. I know you're with the Opera." He motions toward the stalls.

"Opera? The preferred artform of the bourgeois homosexual? What are you insinuating?" His lip slackens and reveals his lower gums.

"That you work for them."

"Trade..." A twitch courses through him. "Obstruction!"

YOUR COMRADE FALTERS. GO TO HIS AID.

"I thought your partner had been incapacitated."

"It’s possible I messed up."

"Yeah, figured something's wrong. He's been very insistent about these socks." He clicks his tongue, once.

"Trade agent?" He looks at you, baffled. "Snap out of it. Tell this man about the four cubic metres of Kohilan cotton Tempo is expecting from us!"

"Look, before you say another word -- we need to get out of here."

"Get out of here? But we've got a deal to close." His mouth forms a painful grin.

"You're just here to rub my head and eat my candy again, aren't you?" There's unmistakable edge to his voice.

"I wouldn't describe what I found in your pocket as 'candy'. It was hostile to life."

His face turns red as his lower lip starts to tremble.

He's taken offense.

Is this... really you?

When operants lose themselves in their own fiction, the only solution is demolition -- the Cardenas-II Verbal Manoeuvre.

How does the manoeuvre go again?

It involves reciting a specific sequence of words to gradually unspool the delusions the operant has wrapped himself in.

A measure of last resort. Reports state it being extremely painful for the recipient.

You remember asking Doctor Kharlov to describe the sensation. He brought his lighter to a piece of paper and let it burn. 'That,' he said, 'But inside.'

Can't I just slam his head real hard to reset him?

This will be a lot like that, but with words.

But he's not just a persona. He's also me. (Proceed.)

A successful manoeuvre should leave the impression of you intact and obliterate whatever residual notions he has of himself.

His soul is still new to the world, fresh and vulnerable. You need to walk him back one step at a time.

"Melita?" He looks around the bazaar, wide-eyed. "Melita!?"

He's deteriorating. Rapidly.

There's a manoeuvre you were taught to use when an operant is lost within their chosen persona. A kind of psychic demolition technique. Unfortunately, you've only retained the basic idea of it.

"I don't know what's this 'candy' you speak of." (Lie.)

"Liar." His glasses fog over.

"I just wanted to see if you were alive."

"Ha. Very funny. What else would I be? A ghost?" He narrows his eyes.

"I only rubbed your head for good luck."

He looks at you, frowning.

Say nothing.

"You're just here to rub my head again, aren't you?" There's unmistakable edge to his voice.

"You're just here to steal my candy again, aren't you?" There's unmistakable edge to his voice.

"Let's ease up on the aggression, okay?"

"I'm being perfectly reasonable. He's the one getting aggressive." He twitches again.

"There are no socks, they're just a metaphor."

"Why else would we both be here?" He twitches again -- harder than before. "It's... it's the socks. And Tempo!"

"Tempo's not here. He's been zeroed out."

"Zeroed... out?" He twitches again, then starts cackling nervously. "Socks. Tempo. What?"

"But look at him now! Upright and verbal!"

"A miracle, clearly." He clicks his tongue, once.

"It's fine. I'll fix it."

"You got a plan?" He clicks his tongue, once.

"This is a very sub-optimal time for assigning blame, given the mess we're in."

"Seems to me this is all yours." He shifts his stance, uneasy.

"I've a new venture -- making more of me."

"Looks like there's still room for improvement." He shifts his stance, uneasy.

"Last I saw him, he was coherent enough. What is this?" He glances at you.

"This is progress. The last I saw him, he was insensate."

"I had to perform a cutting-edge -- some may say heroic -- procedure on him."

"Not a doctor, I take it." He exhales smoke.

"I, too, am confused by this emerging mystery."

"Makes three of us, then." He shifts his stance, uneasy.

"Import agent. A moment, please."

"Took you long enough." He tilts his head toward you. "Mind telling this man about our assignment, junior import agent?"

"PSEUDOPOD."

"What?" He glances at you. "Ah. Junior import agent. Tell the man about our assignment."

"Everything okay here?"

"Not even close."

"You're late, junior import agent. Tell the man about our assignment."