You return to the lone payphone.

You return to the lone payphone.

Look around you.

You can talk privately, as long as you keep your voice down.

Examine the payphone.

You squint at the colourful booth.

This payphone's been around for a while...

Cracked receiver and yellowed plastic. At least a decade, you assume.

A faded sticker draws your attention -- an advertisement for a local ferry schedule. The year: 82.

Inspect the cord.

Stretched too many times. Coils slacken near the base, but someone's wound a rubber band to keep them tight.

Look at the side panel.

Something catches your eye. Beneath the grime, the metal surface ripples like something's trapped underneath.

A gentle curve, swaying through grime. Odd shape for corrosion.

Scratch at the filth.

Grime flakes off in grey petals as your nail catches on a ridge. A shape emerges: arched, leaping, a dolphin in mid-jump.

What are you jumping over, friend?

The engraving's shallow, eroded by years of neglect, but legible: 1F7G35-94X12. A serial number.

That Renotel terminal in Party Alley -- it was asking for a serial, wasn't it?

And now you have one.

With luck, it'll pull down the line signature.

A Renotel identifier. I wonder what that terminal in Party Alley would do with it...

Only one way to find out -- head to Party Alley.

A Renotel identifier. That old terminal in the Bazaar -- I wonder...

As good a place to start as any.

That maintenance frame seemed intended for wireless connections, but it's worth checking out.

A Renotel identifier. Can I use this somehow?

Maybe. In any case, you have this now, it's better than not having it.

You'd need to cross-reference the number. Renotel must have maintenance terminals hidden away -- keep an eye out.

A serial number for who? The phone company?

Wipe it gently with your sleeve.

The grime yields in oily streaks. Slowly, a shape emerges -- rounded and friendly. A dolphin, embossed into the chassis.

Enough looking around. (Go back.)

You relax your posture and take a step back.

The box is scrubbed of the usual fliers and graffiti, leaving streaks of adhesive and permanent marker behind. The coin slot has been jammed by an ancient, broken sol coin.

The keystone.

Pick up the phone.

"Hello there."

"Hi."

"Get off the line!"

She replaces herself with a determined silence.

"You! You are... banned! Banned from the line! You think you can turn up to my house and then act like everything's normal? Go away!"

You hear her slam the receiver down, then the sound of angry muttering in the middle distance. She's not listening.

"It's me again.'

"Hello there."

"I'm a bad person. A really bad person. I want to confess..."

Alternative wording

"I have more bad things to confess..."

"Tell me all about it, tell me how bad you've been."

Alternative wording

"I'm listening, baby. Let it all out."

"I shot a ghost."

"They're spooky, baby. Can't be helped."

"I took a child's toy sword."

"You..." her voice changes. "I told you that was his! He better not be upset about it."

"You..." she hesitates. "It was probably a very annoying, light up sword, right? And he won't be able to bother anybody with it at night now... You've done a good deed."

"I killed my friend with a crank drill."

"Hope they deserved it, sweetheart."

"I wanged my friend with a crank drill."

"I kicked a drunk in the alley."

"Well, they shouldn't have been in your way now should they baby."

"I gave a local television personality a weapon of mass psychic destruction."

"You are a weapon of mass psychic destruction; you're wreaking havoc on Portofiro. My rebel."

"I murdered a local television personality."

"That was you?"

She gasps and moans seductively into the receiver.

"And now you're on the run, a murderer at large. That's so hot, baby. I bet you still have the weapon and everything."

"I forced my friend to relive a traumatic memory."

"That kind of thing can be cathartic, darling. People need to work through trauma. It's not unlike what we're doing now..."

"I destroyed a postbox."

"You fuck that postbox up, ooh you bad girl, you big postbox killing machine."

"I human trafficked a popstar."

"I'm sure you did. I'm sure they gave you loads and loads of money. I bet you're swimming in it right now, right? All that filthy blood money really turns me on..."

We didn't do it for money -- we did it for a weird old man we'd never met.

"I disobeyed my boss."

"Hehe, I don't think that's all bad. Unless you want it to be? In which case... baby, you're a sinner."

"I shot an old man in the face."

"Oh so dangerous, I bet he deserved it. Was he a bad man? Was he a horrible bad old man?"

"He was a techno-fascist."

"Yes baby, you kill those fascists for your Duchess. That's my good girl."

"The one eye he had left looked straight through me."

"I... yes, I imagine it would." a momentary falter. "You forget about his horrible eye."

"I was supposed to free him. He was in my care."

"I... I see..." a momentary falter. "You forget all about him darling, he's gone now."

"There was this fire exit... clearly marked. I left it open."

"Oh," she gasps, "I didn't realise I was talking to a real rule-breaker."

"I molested an unconscious person."

"I bet they weren't really unconscious. I bet they were pretending. I bet they loved it."

"I took out a teenager's tooth. With a prybar."

"Under or over eighteen?"

Don't answer.

"Baby. You are not to prybar children. Alright? Can you do that for your Duchess? No prybaring children. That's my girl."

"Under."

"Narcs get pried."

"I stole a fur coat."

Alternative wording

"I stole a fur coat. I'm wearing it right now."

"Who can resist a fur? I love a woman who takes what's hers..."

"I robbed a monkey."

"You're so interesting, darling. So imaginative..."

"I battered an old man with a cabinet."

"Old men are wicked, darling. He deserved a little bashing."

"I don't want to talk about it." [Back.]

Alternative wording

"Enough confession for now..." [Back.]

"I'm here for you."

Alternative wording

"Whatever you say baby."

"That was a lot to confess. Do you really feel you're all that bad?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm actually bad."

"My bad girl. Your Duchess is here for you."

"Maybe bourgeois morality is giving me complexes."

"Could be, baby. Your Duchess is here to stop it from getting you down..."

"Maybe just the normal amount of bad."

"That's my girl. Your Duchess is here for you."

"I am thoroughly, irretrievably wicked."

"My own, personal villain. Your Duchess is here for all your wicked ways..."

"I'm an artist of the profane."

"My artist of the profane. I can't wait to hear about your next performance..."

"I'm looking for information on a colleague of mine, a sock importer. Did he call you?"

"A sock importer?"

The warmth in her voice dipped, only for a moment.

"Hmm... is he a friend of yours, an enemy? Do you want to hear about him fucking me, do you want to hear about how he kept his socks on the whole time?"

"He called you, didn't he?"

"You tell me. Did he? Was he good, bad... am I wearing his socks right now?"

"This isn't roleplay, he's in bad shape."

"I can't discuss my other lovers. Please don't be disappointed with me..."

"Just tell me if he called. Sock importer. Yes?"

"Your card was in his pocket. That's why I'm calling."

"My card? Like a business card? I don't have those, darling... maybe one of my lovers printed it for fun."

"Something awful happened to him."

"Oh? Are you a detective, is this a mystery? Let me help you solve it... Or am I suspect? Are you going to handcuff me..."

"Who are you?"

"I told you, I'm Duchess. Let's stick to the Miracle from now on, baby."

A name from legend. A mythical creature.

"I mean in real life."

"You don't think I'm real, darling? I'm right here, ready for you to do... whatever you want with me."

"Now, let's fall in love."

Yes, yes! Sniff her, taste her, need her smells.

Inhale, deeply.

"You ever had a vanilla cake? Think of the soft sweetness in your mouth, the melting sponge. Add a little candied citrus... and the tiniest hint of salt. That's me. Can you taste me?"

You can. Your fingers sink into the receiver as if the plastic were suddenly the plump, warm flesh of her waist.

"You're good."

"I can be so good for you, baby."

"Enough about me. Tell me who you really are."

"A humble penitent."

"Then kneel for me, baby. I can draw out your sin -- let me hear your confessions, lick them clean..."

There's a sheen of vulgarity, but she changes character as quickly as a master operant in theatre. Impressive.

Maybe it isn't character, she's just super into this.

No -- it feels natural precisely because she is so distant from the performance. These gears are turning without effort; the real her is miles away.

"Still there, darling? I'm right here waiting for you."

Should I make her my asset?

In another world, perhaps. Another assignment. But not this one.

"A student of the arcane."

"Shall I light some candles, draw a chalk circle, summon a demon from the stars to fuck me? Anything for you..."

"A blunt object of History."

"That's right darling, you have control of the map of the world, changing it however you like. Will you control me, too?"

"A contemplator."

"My thinker, my thoughtful lover. Run your hands over me, explore every contour, find every secret of my body. I'll just be your guide."

"Hypnosis! Wicked telepathic harpy!"

"Oh yes, I'm terrible -- ferocious. I'll make you helpless if that's how you like it."

No. But you can definitely catch a whiff of the last guy's teeth.

"This phone is filthy."

"The dirtiest. There's no limit, here. Nothing we can't do. Your wildest dreams, your worst nightmares."

"Sorry, it's not working for me."

"Aha," she giggles. "Don't worry, baby. We can try anything you like."

"I'm not a phone sex kind of person."

"Is that a type of person?" She laughs. "It's only pleasure, darling. I'm here to serve you however you'd like."

"With a prostitute? Don't make me laugh."

"You're right. I'm a bad girl, a filthy whore, and you should punish me for all this dirt that comes out of my mouth."

"I think I'm already getting there."

"Oh, that's my girl."

She moans, softly.

"Tell me about yourself, darling. Tell me who you really are."

Ökay.

"That's a name, not an answer."

"My name is the answer -- to whatever your heart desires."

Her name seems to brush across your inner thigh.

Your heart flutters at her name.

"I told you, I'm Duchess."

"Do you always answer this line?"

"I have to be away sometimes. But I'll try to make that less frequent now I know it might be you on the other side."

"But how do you get paid?"

"But don't you worry about me sweetheart, I'm looked after just fine."

"I don't believe in miracles. Who's paying?"

"Yes. Please don't leave me."

"I'll be here for you whenever I can. I'm your Duchess."

"What happens if you need the bathroom mid call?"

"Is that what you want? You can listen, if you like. Just say the word."

"I need to speak to one of your clients, but he won't listen to me."

"No more questions about other clients, darling, let's just get back to me and you."

YOU MUST BECOME UNIGNORABLE. DISCUSS BORDER POLITICS.

This isn't going to get you anywhere. Better pay her another visit in-person.

"Poor darling, it's so hard to be ignored. But your Duchess is always here to listen to you."

"How do you get your clients to open up?"

"They open me up. Are you going to?"

"Work with me. Ask him my questions."

"I would never betray you like that to anybody else, how can you ask me to do it to him?"

"Do you offer in person services?"

"Oh... Am I not good enough for you? Break my heart, baby."

"I'd be willing to pay very well."

"I don't need your money, darling. Just your love."

"I'm sure we can find more enticing things to talk about..."

"This would be a personal matter."

"Oh?"

A trace of concern. Lean into it.

"It's... about my boyfriend."

"Oh. I can't make an exception, I'm sorry. But if I can offer a piece of advice: I would have an in-person chat with him."

"Look, I can't explain over the phone."

"I'm sorry, darling, but this will have to do."

"You know, forget I said anything."

"Had me worried there for a second, darling."

"No, this is fine." (Go back.)

"I'm glad you think so."

"Just calling to say hi. How are you?"

"Not on the Miracle, sweetie. It's too hard to get back into rhythm if I break it."

"Thought I'd let you know that the sock importer's a lost cause."

"A what, baby?"

"A past-tense person."

"Darling, there's no such thing. The world is full of all our little changes to it, whether we're here to see them or not."

"Tried medication, it didn't work."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. He seemed like a nice boy."

"Don't give up hope on him yet. People are stronger and the world is stranger than we think."

Convince her to tell you about PSEUDOPOD.

She's too good at her job. You need something like a universal safe word to bring her into the here and now.

"My colleague. Was he suicidal?"

"Suicidal..."

A long silence between you.

"You're scaring me. Did something actually happen?"

"Maybe. I'm investigating."

"Oh.... I... this isn't a fetish, right? I... I'm sorry."

"A sock importer. Yes. He... He did call. He... told me his work partner let him down."

The words slip in like broken glass under a fingernail.

"I knew it. He was counting on me."

"That was you? Oh, darling, no. But he didn't sound suicidal. I wouldn't have missed that. Not a chance. I... just believe me. I would know."

She exhales and the line crackles. She will think about PSEUDOPOD long into tonight.

She exhales and the line crackles. She will think about PSEUDOPOD for the rest of the night.

"Setting me up for failure before I even arrived. Deeply suspicious."

"So you're the partner? He seemed hurt but he didn't sound suicidal. I wouldn't have missed that. Not a chance. I... just believe me. I would know."

"Sounds weak. Dependent."

"He wanted comfort, and I gave it to him. But he didn't sound suicidal. I wouldn't have missed that. Not a chance. I... just believe me. I would know."

"But we never even met."

"You may be the last person he spoke to."

"He was a colleague. I need to know if he talked to you."

"Did you do it? Did you tell him he had a weird dick?"

"What, no! I... this isn't a fetish, right? You're being serious?"

"Did he seem afraid? Like someone was planning to hurt him."

"'Hurt him', love?"

A long pause stretches between you.

"Did something happen?"

"Something. Yes. Something very bad."

"Oh.... I... this isn't a fetish, right? I... I'm sorry."

"A sock importer. Yes. He... He did call. He... told me his work partner let him down. But he didn't seem afraid."

"I don't know, that's what I'm trying to find out."

"I... this isn't a fetish, right? You're being serious?"

"I'm pretty sure he was murdered."

"Any new client seemed so horny that his soul might die?"

"Wh- well. Yes. Plenty of those, darling."

"I mean abnormally so. Like he might really die."

"What do you mean? Has something happened?"

"Yes. I think my double died of horny."

"Oh.... I... this isn't a fetish, right? I... I'm sorry."