"Welcome back to our program, Lieutenant Prophet Wilk." He raises his hands and claps slowly for the cameras.

"Welcome back to our program, Lieutenant Prophet Wilk." He raises his hands and claps slowly for the cameras.

"Were you... expecting me?"

"Of course. You accepted my gracious invitation to appear on my TV program. Unfortunately for you, this was a devious pretext to expose one of Reality's toadlings to my loyal viewers."

A small sign lights up above one of the large cameras. It says: 'APPLAUSE'.

You become aware of the gun's shape, cradled against your ribs. Your index finger warms and curls.

"Please, disregard your neuro-chatter. There's no need for violence -- unless you choose to initiate it."

"For now, at least, this Reality favours the bold partisans of the real. This is why you've come on your hands and knees to beg for the metaphysical superweapon."

"What do you mean 'this Reality'?"

"Please, let us face our situation directly in the eye. Out of respect for the people watching at home."

You've never been here. Everything you're experiencing is for the first time.

"Don't tune out what your heart tells you. Ignore the chattering of your little nano-voices. Their interests are not your own."

Hold on, how did he -- ?

Is it... possible you've been here before? You have no memory of it, but he seems very certain.

"See? Even your little nano-voices are beguiled. You would do well to ask why."

"I won't be begging, just taking."

"We'll see."

"This is all a lot to take in."

"By design, of course. Reality achieves its dominance by overwhelming the senses with two-dimensional sludge."

Clap, like the sign says.

"Exactly like a trained monkey. Good. Let's get to the main segment."

"The truth is there was no need for you to come here, except your own self-deluding curiosity or obsessive task checking. Unless you have aims you're not even aware of?"

"What do you mean, 'aims I'm not aware of'?"

"I refer to the most sensitive designation known to the Opera: 'ZERO-HOLD', that which is so valuable it must be kept even from its possessor."

There is no way this menace should know your terms of art. Something is very wrong here.

"I'm very in control of my actions."

"Of course you are. Isn't that right, viewers?" Even though the bag, it's clear he's looking at you like a developmentally delayed child.

"My choices have never been my own."

"The lines are all written out for you. You've never had a chance to play as yourself."

Clap, like the sign says.

Hold on, how did he -- ?

"Was I? By all appearances, you've stumbled into my fortress-studio... unless you were guided here by information inaccessible to ordinary people? Would you even know the difference?"

"Bagman, how did you -- ?" (Point to the side of your head.)

"Know about the choir of nano-transmitters implanted in your auditory cortex?"

Don't listen to him! We're real, Herschen!

He must be listening in, on his own nano-receiver.

"Please, we've been over this many times." He waves a dismissive hand.

"Alright, let's talk about this 'Reality Situation'."

"The situation is obvious: It's all fake and bullshit. What we call 'Reality' is nothing but cardboard stand-ins set up by the ones who broke the world."

(Look around.) "I dunno, looks pretty real to me."

"A shameful double-lie. One that you perpetuate first on yourself, and then on everyone around you."

"Where does the lie come from?"

"EMTERR, the Opera, the Luzians... it was a joint effort. The basic facts of the story have been well established."

"Year Zero: Some highly credentialed necro-goblin pulls a pin loose, and the whole fabric of reality comes apart. They've been trying to put it back together ever since."

Nod in agreement.

"You nod along because you understand. The End of History was also the beginning of the Reality Situation. First, they burned our calendars. They promised it would take seven years to restore 'reality' to its previous state." His balled fists quiver at his sides.

"Now it's the year 96 and these sentient boat-shoes are changing how the clocks work, as you well know." His balled fists quiver.

"EMTERR, the Opera, the Weeping Eye... aren't they enemies?"

"On paper. In truth, the Developed World and your Superbloc are a two-headed lizard: one driven by plentitude, the other by lack, both trapped by the situation they created."

"I've laid it all out quite clearly here." He points to the constellation of sticky notes on the board behind him.

Impenetrable. The bag might be constricting the flow of blood to his head.

"What about the Luzians, what's their part in this?"

"In some ways the Luzians see the Situation more clearly than anyone. Their techno imprints are enacting a 300-year-old plan to enslave humanity with their narcotising cultural goods."

That part at least is not wholly off-base.

"But for now they too participate in the ritual to appease the astral shrimp, and so I must count them among my numerous enemies."

"The powers-that-be are trying to set things right. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

"Yes, they all love to cry and fondle one another while they lament the awesome power they wield over us. Naturally such power attracts little homunculi to lick the tears from their cheeks."

"For now, the best we can do is find others who see the world for what it is. Keep them close. Let the rest mock and criticise, they are addicted to the illusion."

"How is the illusion sustained?"

"By you, of course."

"By me?"

"Yes, by you and everyone else who accepts what they should not. It's all the compromises we make in the name of 'realism' and 'society', until over time they congeal into something that isn't real and isn't society, either."

"Sadly, our greatest enemy isn't the meta-government or the underground vault of ectoplasmically linked businessmen. It's what we do to ourselves, every single day."

"What good is a TV program against an all-encompassing foe?"

For a moment, the bagged man lowers his head, seemingly lost in thought. When he looks up again, his eyes take on a distant aspect.

It's like he's not looking at you, but rather someone with your same name and face, standing in the exact same place.

"To defeat the Reality entirely would mean regression to a pre-historical consciousness, skulking around on four limbs and living in trees, the social sphere reduced to ritual grooming and a few ochre cave scratchings."

"Good, sentience is overrated. To know our true self we must renounce others, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying without others there is no self."

Rush of nameless river in broadleaf forest, ancient riparian zone. The paleolithic huntress stalks her prey...

A deer.

A flash of fur between splotches of green. A cry echoes. A short spear flies. Hot blood stains the leaves.

"I remain realistic about my circumstances. Reality will not dissolve as a result of my broadcasts. But I can make it wobble for a few hours every weekday."

"Why not cut all ties? Cover yourself in furs, make flint spears, forget humanity?"

"Naturally I've seen the same images."

"I have considered it, but I know what the files say about me. I've gone over them. In nearly all of them, this remains a thought for the lonely hours, never acted upon."

'Nearly all of them'. Interesting.

"I don't think we can make peace with Reality."

"No. We must suffer over and over, continually, because the powers-that-be refuse to make peace with the situation they've created."

The bottle rattles like a child's toy as he shoves a handful of pills through his paper slot.

"Perhaps now you begin to understand the significance of the metaphysical superweapon we expropriated from you."

"Now, I believe we have a trade to make."

"Now, let's discuss the terms of our trade."

"Perhaps now you begin to understand the significance of the metaphysical superweapon in your possession."

"Cute fairy story. Got any more, Man of Bag?"

"You mock what you don't understand. You deserve pity. Luckily for you, in most Realities you receive plenty."

"Bagman, this is bringing me down. Let's end on a hopeful note."

"In all my time contemplating the Reality Situation, the nearest I've found is this..."

"There was a time when all this made sense. If it doesn't now, we must take comfort knowing that it once did."

A wolf.

Circling, circling in a clearing. The wolf dips its head. The huntress brandishes her spear. The wolf leaps, the huntress slides. A rush of hot blood across the sun-dappled ground.

Shake it off.

"Not the most inspiring stuff."

"One of Reality's most pernicious delusions: That the truth must be uplifting."

"I'm sorry, I should've known this was my fault somehow."

"You're not solely at fault. It's all the compromises we make in the name of 'realism' and 'society', until over time they congeal into something that isn't real and isn't society, either."

"Bagman, I've been saying this sort of thing for ages. No one listened!"

"Yes, your consistency on the 'simulation' question has been admirable."

"This is why they spread misinformation about your 'dissociative' tendencies and suicidal ideations."

"Let me guess: they call you 'maladjusted', 'impossible to be around in public', 'a danger to yourself and others'?"

"I got 'dissociative tendencies' and 'suicidal ideations'."

"'Unfit for custody', 'high-credit risk'... every day, a new slander."

"What? No. No one says that about me."

"While you're around." He nods gravely.

"Believe whatever you want. I'm here for information."

"You're Reality's finger puppet, a cheap fake. Utterly transparent."

"I work for the Opera, I don't know what you're on about."

"The Opera, EMTERR, the Weeping Eye... all sitting cross-legged in the same circle jerk."

"That's me. Totally see-through. The disc."

"The metaphysical superweapon. Fear not, we're getting there."

"That's me. Totally see-through. When's the ritual happening?"

"Fear not. We're getting there."

"Can you talk sense for even one minute?"

"I've been talking sense this whole time. You just haven't been listening."

"Believe whatever you want. I'm here for my disc."

"Sadly, categories like 'real' and 'false' have long ceased to have meaning. There's only belief."

"No!" He slams his fist against his desk. "Against the onslaught of dolled up nihilism, we refuse to abandon our positions... casualties be damned."

"Now it's the year 96 and these sentient boat-shoes are changing how the clocks work." His balled fists quiver.

"You nod along like a simpleton in thrall to 'electro pop', but you understand nothing."

"Help me understand. Where did the trouble begin?"

He extracts a handful of pills from one of his comically oversized pockets, then stuffs them through the bottom of his bag.

The overhead lights cast a sickly green colour across the brown paper.

He's recited this story many times. The telling never gets any easier.

"The trouble began, as it often does, with a signature. First, they burned our calendars. They promised it would take seven years to restore the world to its previous state. They were wrong."

Shake your head in disappointment.

"You shake your head because you understand. The End of History was also the beginning of the Reality Situation. First, they burned our calendars. They promised it would take seven years to restore 'reality' to its previous state." His balled fists quiver at his sides.

"You shake your head so sadly, so convincingly, but you understand nothing."

Clap mysteriously.

"Very good, you understand. The End of History was also the beginning of the Reality Situation. First, they burned our calendars. They promised it would take seven years to restore 'reality' to its previous state." His balled fists quiver at his sides.

"You clap along like a trained monkey, but you understand nothing."

"But, Bagman -- they told us the End of History was for our own good!"

"And you know what the truly sad part is? They probably believed it. Now, please, I must re-optimise my stack."

"How did we get into this situation, as a species?"

"An exceedingly important question, but first -- I must re-optimise my stack."

"When you say 'fake'..."

"I mean fake! A convenient legal fiction, a non-place filled with actors delivering the same stale lines over and over."

"Who's writing the scripts?"

"Who broke the world, Bagman?"

"You expect me to believe that all of this is simply staged?"

"Look around: You think the 'Bootleg Bazaar' is the real thing?" He coughs. "They've got three more set up in aircraft hangars across Coulange and the Eastern Republics."

"That's where these filthy collaborants practice their scripts before being shipped here, to put on their performances, day after day like a dirty travelling circus."

In some ways, he is correct. People often perform for someone, or something, mostly themselves.

"A fake of a fake. I don't know. Seems hard to believe."

"A narrative has been constructed, and you are lapping it up like a thirsty dog at the shores of a waste treatment bank."

"Still not convinced? Have you noticed that there are always GMs telling you where you can and can't go?"

"Isn't that what police are supposed to do?"

"Don't you think it's convenient that those with the monopoly of violence always appear to keep you away from that which you shouldn't encounter?"

"They do have a habit of getting in my way."

"Strategically deployed along pre-rehearsed vectors. Like you and me. Over and over again."

"I'll let you in on a little secret: For a time they considered replacing the GMs with genetically and surgically modified boars, intended to surveil and obstruct. Physically stronger than any GM, and less prone to alcoholism."

"Boars would've been better, more honest about their role in preserving class relations."

"I agree. Highly symmetrical, the metaphor embraced. Alas, liberalism failed, as it often does, for 'budgetary' reasons."

"But this is only the first layer of the illusion. Once your eyes are open, you can't stop seeing."

"A sign of spiritual decay, that our species can't police itself."

"The Reality Situation oppresses all life -- animal, vegetable," he coughs, "and especially mineral."

"Wait, minerals aren't alive."

"You illustrate my point exactly."

"If the market says it's cool and legal, what's the problem?"

"It probably would've been, if not for an unholy alliance between the police unions and animal rights fanatics."

"I have no opinion, I just want to know what happened to the boars."

"Naturally, they rebelled. In the furthest reaches of the Pitol Tract, they've established their own anarcho-socialist society, both freer and more law-abiding than our own."

ERSATZ SOCIALISM FOR ERSATZ PIGS.

"I haven't noticed the GMs at all."

"Either you're lucky, or you've so internalised Reality's logic that it doesn't even occur to you to go where you're not meant to..."

"Maurito's alright, actually."

"Look, viewers: Another so-called critical thinker slurping down obvious copaganda."

"Something about the Bazaar always did seem... bootlegged."

"Baby steps on the path toward critical reflection, but we'll take it."

"I spoke with the Boatman. He looked real to me."

"A paid actor standing atop a polystyrene prop. They didn't even give his part a real name."

Ignore him and wave at the camera.

The camera's red light blinks back.

"Bagman, the people at home need to know about this 'ritual' I'm meant to partake in."

"First off, let's dispel the pretenses. My loyal partisans are all too familiar with the ancient astrological ritual you're here to take part in..."

"This is where the shambling, money-stuffed corpses who govern our Reality kick back and ritually sacrifice one another before an effigy of a giant astral shrimp."

"The giant, what now... ?"

"Astral shrimp, yes. Which in their feverish imaginations the moneymen claim fell from Canopus and granted them dominion over humanity."

"I produced and distributed a fourteen-hour documentary on this very subject."

No point in attempting to refute him. His worldview is a perpetual motion device, where denial only becomes further proof of your compromise.

Pump him up, really get him going. His feverish delusions can't be dispelled, only magnified.

"Bagman, it's worse than you realise: There are two shrimp: Brother and sister."

"Do you hear that, viewers? Straight from the mouth of the string-puller... two shrimp!" He stabs two fingers in the air.

"But why would the powers that be sacrifice one another for a fake shrimp?"

"The ritual goes by many names, depending on your source: 'elite turnover', 'creative destruction', 'the scapegoat mechanism'... in all accounts, however there is one constant:"

"The shrimp demands blood."

"This is bourgeois spiritism. I look forward to dismantling this shrimp."

"Naturally, the shrimp is also a permanent member of the Party's standing committee."

"A beautiful death-cult, steeped in obscure mysteries. All necessary for the regeneration of spirit."

"Naturally, the techno-fascists supply the barbecues and fireworks at these events."

"I don't know, Bagman. This just sounds to me like a bunch of cool high-achievers kicking back."

"That's not my interpretation."

"My research has revealed that the ritual is due to begin soon. I plan to infiltrate and disrupt it."

"And here's where the logic of your situation overtakes you: Your 'disruption' has been written in from the beginning."

"All part of the simulation, naturally."

"I can say no more. Your path may take many roads, yet the destination is always the same."

"Still, for the sake of my media offensive, I will tell you when the ritual is to begin... once we've made our trade."

"What do you mean 'from the beginning'?"

"The shrimp knows I'm coming..."

"Not only that, it's prepared to receive you with all 20 of its astral appendages."

"I'm pretty sure that's not what's going on."

"Just tell me when this thing is supposed to begin."

"Ha! You think this is the first time you've attempted this?" The bag crinkles on his head.

"Please, we promised the people watching from home a high-stakes exchange. If you want to know when it all comes together, we need to make a trade."

"First off, let's dispel the pretenses. It's you who needs to know about the ancient astrological ritual, that's why you've come crawling to us for information..."

"Let's circle back to my favourite subject: Me, and what I'm doing here."

"That depends on the Reality we're in. Sometimes we come to mutually beneficial trade. In others, you're Reality's hateful assassin, the one who brings down this entire partisan offensive."

"In a select few, you become my most trusted partisan -- my Lieutenant-Prophet. And in some, we never meet at all..."

"Since I have nothing to offer you in trade, this is either the reality where you make a charitable donation to the partisan cause... or get scared. Which is it?"

"I'm willing to consider a charitable donation."

"In any case, you are just today's attempt. If you fail, they'll just send another and another, until one of you succeeds."

"There's only me. There is no one else coming."

"I'm not speaking of another spy. If you fail, they've always got more copies, your data records all backed up in the mysterious Satellite Facility B."

Alternative wording

"If your attempts at mystery fail, they've always got more copies, your data records all backed up in the mysterious Satellite Facility B."

Alternative wording

"Shake your head all you want, if you fail, they've always got more copies, your data records all backed up in the mysterious Satellite Facility B."

Alternative wording

"Nod along all you want, if you fail, they've always got more copies, your data records all backed up in the mysterious Satellite Facility B."

Alternative wording

"That's right, wave to your longtime fans, they've always got more copies, your data records all backed up in the mysterious Satellite Facility B."

At your fingertips, more than a dozen. A collector of false lives, burned onto false mirrors of polycarbonate. What are you saving them for?

"Like you in every way that matters, except that they haven't failed yet."

"Copies, data records... I don't know what you're talking about, Bagman."

"Are you still playing dumb?" He shakes his head. "Why don't you check your saves, operant?"

A bubble of air expands and gets stuck in your throat.

"All that remains is to figure out which you we're dealing with this time." He stuffs a handful of capsules into his paper slot.

"I have my assignment, I'm going to fulfill it however I can."

"So long as those copies exist there is no true understanding between us. No matter what you say, you remain a dupe of Reality."

"Think it over."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"What do you mean 'every way that matters'?"

"Though the medium is neutral, the information is imperfect, subject to all the normal human flaws."

"You know nothing. There are already two of me active in-theatre at this very moment."

"You refer to your sad, confused double, restored to action with Luzian demoncraft." He shakes his head. "And we're meant to believe the Opera and the Weeping Eye are on opposite sides."

Alternative wording

"You refer to your sadly mute double, restored to action with Luzian demoncraft." He shakes his head. "And we're meant to believe the Opera and the Weeping Eye are on opposite sides."

Alternative wording

"You refer to your maladjusted double, restored to action with Luzian demoncraft." He shakes his head. "And we're meant to believe the Opera and the Weeping Eye are on opposite sides."

Nod even harder.

Cameras loom as silent observers behind you.

Keep on shaking your head.

Clap, dial the mystery even further up.

Your host regards you with a look that can only be called 'respectful hostility'.

The highest compliment he pays his guests.

Wave to the people at home.

"Seeing as the metaphysical superweapon is already in my possession, I anticipate that one or both of us shall die."

"There must be another way."

"It's certainly possible, though I fear in this Reality death follows wherever you go."

"Don't pretend that it hasn't already."

Not to wörry, Herschen, we don't fear death.

"Don't pretend as though you aren't prepared for it."

"Though I see you've wandered into my fortress-studio unarmed, so we're not there yet."

"Finally. A true professional." (Clap for the camera.)

"There will be no professionalism here. Only opposing forces colliding in the dark, as the powers that be never intended."

"I have more important things to worry about."

"Yes, I've heard that one before. People always have 'other obligations' -- careers, board games, immediate families. Somehow these take precedence over the fundamental nature of reality. Sickening, incomprehensible."

"I guess I could think more about the fundamental structure of reality."

"Of course, you wouldn't be here otherwise."

"I think you're talking about the social contract, Bagman."

"I never signed any contract," he says bitterly.

"I've already offered to share critical information regarding the timing of the 'ritual' you're soon to take part in. All I require in trade is the red disc in your possession."

"I'll think about your offer."

"There is not much to 'think about'. You are in a highly linear situation in which there is currently only one way forward."

"You know what, I'm not going to trade this disc, just to spite you."

"I can see your choices. I can see the Manus Fati hovering with indecision. Threats and hypotheticals have no effect on me."

"I'll be direct. I'm prepared to share critical information regarding the timing of the 'ritual' you're soon to take part in. Assuming you're willing to trade for it."