"I believe... this is where I'm supposed to offer you a deal."

"I believe... this is where I'm supposed to offer you a deal."

The old man sways slightly as he studies you. Far below, the rooftops of Portofiro glitter in the morning light.

And somewhere beyond them: the shores of La Luz.

The moment crystallises. The world is empty save for you and your enemy.

The board is set. The Manus Fati wriggles its fingers above the pieces.

He's identical to his body double. A clean shave, a haircut, and a good night's rest are all that separate his face from that of the man you killed.

"Whatever you want. Money, advanced techno secrets... forgiveness?" He paws the inside flap of his jacket, as though searching for his keys.

His words uncertain, his bearing unsteady. Drunk, possibly high?

YOUR COUNTER-OFFER IS THIS: A BULLET TO HIS REACTIONARY SKULL.

Study your target.

An outwardly unremarkable old man, probably in his early 70s. His hands are loose and empty at his sides. Opaque glass coats his eyes.

As he attempts to straighten himself, he lists to one side like a wounded battle-cruiser.

He could pass for a simple drunk, waiting around for his off-licence to open.

A top-heavy piece, just waiting to be flicked off the board.

"Are you Facundo Reyes?"

"I am, sure." He regards you unsteadily. "If that's what you want."

It will have to be. You've come too far.

This feels wrong. Inverted.

"Forgiveness. Yes. That's what I'm here for."

"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you. I've got nothing to offer."

Draw your gun. (Proceed.)

"Nothing... apart from this limp warning..."

"No matter what happens, there will be no parades for your deeds here today."

He pronounces each syllable with agonising slowness, as though speaking with you demands suprahuman levels of focus.

A stoic drunk. Tourniquetting the slur with sheer concentration.

It's not just booze. Benzos.

"Shut up. You're high."

"I'm a professional. Any substances I've ingested are strictly performance-enhancing."

"My name is Dante Augustino. My title is Assistant to the Minister of Mass Culture." He drops his voice to a stage whisper. "But really I'm the minister's body double."

Dante... could it have been... Tempo's message... all will be forgiven... if you pull this off...

This is an open goal. A match-winner. Don't overthink it.

And with that, the Manus Fati swivels its wrist and gives you the finger.

"Your purpose is to kill me, and my purpose is to die. I know my lines, have you memorised yours?"

"What do you mean, your purpose is to die?"

"The art of dying is a lot trickier than people realise. I've been practicing it since a boy. My first mock assassination was at age 15. Would you like to hear about it?"

A combination of anaesthesia and mettle just about manage to contain his fear.

"Fine, tell me about it."

"I'm reciting a poem in front of all the other boys, one I've been preparing for weeks... 'In Slumber Did My Eyes Alight'. We're in the courtyard. Morning exercises..."

A distant look comes over him as he sways to and fro, one foot in the present, one in the memory.

You know the school well. You've already seen the courtyard, the old ginkyo, the barracks where the boys' minds are beaten until they're no longer their own.

"A man stands up in the second row. He draws a machine pistol from his coat and opens fire. I drop screaming to the floor."

"I quickly realise two things: First, I'm not dead. The shots are blanks. Second, my mouth has filled with the strangest taste -- the death cocktail, what the brain fires to prepare itself for imminent extinction."

Dopamine, adrenaline, DMT, endorphins of every flavour and hue.

Horrific chemical orgasm. A hallucinogenic purge of everything stored within the brain's archives, known to the laywoman as life flashing before your eyes.

"Since that day, I've tasted it more than two hundred times. I can feel it gathering on my tongue right now." He sticks his tongue out. "See?"

"Yum-yum, I can practically taste it."

"It's rather sour." He frowns. "I wouldn't say it tastes 'yum-yum' at all."

"What does it taste like?"

"Like metal dissolving in stomach acid."

"Are you nervous? Don't worry, it's normal."

"Stop lying. Die with dignity."

"It's you who's lying to yourself. I can see it in your face."

"Nice try. The real Dante's probably halfway across the Noscorrentes Sea by now."

"Facundo... made it out?" For a moment, something softens behind his eyes.

Like the domesticated dog whose loyalty to his masters lies in his genes, even now he regards the Lich more with sympathy than resentment.

"I tried to kill him, but he escaped."

"One more little trick up his sleeve, after so many..."

"The man you let go was Facundo Reyes, Minister of Mass Culture for the Imperio Illuminado. I'm your consolation prize, it seems."

In spite of you, the conclusion slips into its natural niche -- common sense, inevitable in retrospect.

Brilliantly played, operant. When you get back, there'll be champagne and a line of women's athletic socks commissioned in your honour.

GLORY TO THE PEOPLE'S SPY.

You let him go. You let him go. You let him go.

It's over, operant. You've failed.

You let him get away.

Circuits in your brain spark violently as they rebel against their own conclusions.

"I tried to wang him, but he escaped."

"I traded him with a rougue EMTERR asset, in fact. For Ultra-Violeta."

"I made a trade with your body double. I can't do the same for you."

Say nothing.

"Nice try. The real Dante's at the bottom of the Noscorrentes Sea."

"Dead?" For a moment, the glass in his eyes is wiped fully clean.

"Shot in the head. I'll demonstrate in just a moment."

"Ohh, irony of ironies."

"The man you killed was Facundo Reyes, Minister of Mass Culture for the Imperio Illuminado. I'm just his poor afterimage."

"Yes. I've taken out the double, now I'm here for the man himself."

"You've got it all backward. The man is already dead... you're just looking at his poor afterimage."

Say nothing.

"Nice try. The real Dante's rotting in a secret EMTERR jail, right here in Portofiro."

"EMTERR... has Facundo?" Something darkens the glass in his eyes for a moment.

"Tortured him, too, from what I can tell."

"It seems no one's going to get what they hoped for today. Sometimes it works out like that."

"The person in that EMTERR jail is Facundo Reyes, Minister of Mass Culture for the Imperio Illuminado."

In spite of you, the knowledge slips into its natural niche in your brain - common sense, inevitable in retrospect.

Assignment rating: Catastrophic failure. Turn gun on self.

Some primal part of your brain rejects the information like a gag reflex.

"EMTERR caught the double. I've caught the man himself."

"No. It is the man they have caught, you only have caught the afterimage." He glances away.

Say nothing.

"Pretend I believe you. What now?"

"You do believe me." He stares at you steadily.

"So that's it. I've failed, again."

"Oh, yes. Of course. Did you really think this would go any other way?"

"Yeah. Maybe. A little."

"Of course, it also makes this little tête-à-tête somewhat superfluous. What to do about that..."

Someone has to die today.

"You mean you want to live."

"Now that's a bold suggestion, my friend." He taps the side of his head. "Very creative. Our enemies won't see it coming."

"No dice, Facundo. Words won't save you."

"A dumb hand, unquestioning of its purpose..." He sighs. "Okay, we'll work with it."

A faint but all-encompassing shiver passes through the old man like a tree-shaking wind. Then it's gone -- the tree resettles, a few leaves less than before.

That was his last show of fear, now he sucks it all back into himself.

Pathetic. I would act way cooler if I was about to get assassinated.

Hold that thought.

"Before we get to the action, there's just one thing I've been wondering -- where does the Weeping Eye find killers both disposable and professional?"

Behind you, a hundred black-and-white faces regard you with the sublime indifference of the dead.

"How can I be both 'disposable' and 'professional'?"

"It seems like a contradiction, doesn't it? Must be more trained killers in the world than I've imagined. Or maybe I overestimate the Weeping Eye's commitment to quality..."

He seems to be perplexed by his own question.

"By the way, what is that... 9mm?" He tilts his head to one side. "Are you sure that's enough?"

"Speaking of, there's a soda can on the front of your gun." He reaches out and taps it. "Just so you know."

"Let's get this straight. You're the disposable one, not me."

"Oh, sure. Absolutely." He winks at you. "We've established that my role is to die. But what about you?"

Your gun suddenly feels heavy, or is it your hand that feels weak?

It's hardly news. The Opera did not drag you back into the field to live a long and productive life.

Meat dragged out of the freezer starts going bad the minute it is done thawing.

"I'm here to make up for my past failures."

"And what about them?" He nods down the hill. "Are they making up for their failures too?"

KALEIDOSCOPE.

Karolina.

Ramses.

HOLOCENE.

PSEUDOPOD.

The images come to you, one by one.

Prison, torture, madness, a bullet to the temple. A variety of fates, and history repeating itself.

"That's my squad. Leave them out of this."

"A word of advice. If you get the chance, you should kill them yourself. The Weeping Eye's agents will be very, very unkind."

"I don't recognise them. Perhaps the Weeping Eye got themselves a new set of goons."

"Don't try to get in my head. It won't work."

"But my friend, there's nobody in your head except you."

Unfortunately, he's right.

Yana.

"I suspect I've been set up. This whole assignment smells like a joint-production with unseen forces."

"And what about them?" He nods down the hill. "Are they being set up too?"

"They sent me because they knew I'd get it done."

"And what about them?" He nods down the hill. "What are they for then?"

"The real reasons are unknowable. I've accepted that."

"And what about them?" He nods down the hill. "Have they accepted it as well?"

"Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not with the Weeping Eye."

His mouth opens, then closes again.

"But then... who is it you think you are with?"

No sense in lying at this point.

CARVE THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLICS INTO HIS MEMORY AND HIS FOREHEAD.

"The Opera."

"The communists? Intriguing."

Understanding dawns on his features, and with it something like peace.

An echo from your first meeting with the prisoner.

"Let's keep the questions coming, if you haven't got anywhere else to be... How long have the Opera been in bed with the Weeping Eye?"

No mocking inflection in his voice. He's asking honestly.

He's really outdoing us in the mystique department here. We're going to need a sick line before we slab him.

Best to engage your subject first. Get into his soul. You can't rush quality.

"I'm with Monaxial Intelligence and Hermetic Operations. Witness our debut."

"No... never heard of it." He shakes his head.

Enough fooling around. Drop the false livery. Let the Operant Bureau's anthem play him off the world-stage.

"Still doesn't explain who trained you. I assume they didn't pick you up off the street."

"You're right. I'm actually with the Opera."

"I trained myself. This is a solo performance."

"An auto-didact. Personally, I don't buy it, but you're the one with the gun, so I won't argue the point."

"You'll never know."

"Neither will you... from the sound of it. Okey-dokey, then." He straightens out his jacket and dusts off his shirt front.

A pointless series of little gestures meant somehow to communicate death-readiness.

"I'm nobody, just a night-blade of the Umbral Host."

"Hmmm, mysterious. But too stupid, I think." He shakes his head.

"I'm a partisan of the real. I'm under orders from Subcomandante Bagman."

"The bag is a strong statement." He nods approvingly. "So stupid it wraps all the way around and becomes brilliant."

"I work for Limpadores Azuis. I'm here to clean up a mess."

"Cleaners? No, doesn't play, I think." He shakes his head. "Unless some kind of joke?"

"I'm no one. A Portofiran nationalist, here to stop Reunión." (Lie brazenly.)

"If it's the Reunión you're against, you're killing the wrong person... you don't even have the right accent. Poor casting, I say." He shakes his head.

"So where's the giant shrimp?" (Look around.)

"Excuse me?"

Playing dumb. Squeeze harder and he'll burst.

"The Subcomandante told me everything. There's no point denying it."

"Subcomandante? Is this a Portofiran official. I'm not familiar."

"Here you are, weighing the pros and cons of summary execution, and you're talking to me about... giant shrimp?"

"The intel on this wasn't 100%."

"Perhaps ignorance is preferable for this particular kind of ritual. In any case, I can assure you that it doesn't involve shrimp."

"The ritual, man. Where's it happening?"

"Don't you see it?" He looks around, eyes unfocused.

Seeing something beyond, or absent from, his immediate surroundings.

"Why, you're the officiant. The priest, willing or not."

"I'm not weighing anything, I'm going to shoot you either way."

"I see. Well, why not, then? Revel in your shrimp conjectures."

That's not a denial.

"Never mind." (Go back.)

"Nonsensical. Shrimp..." He mutters, shaking his head.

"You know, the giant shrimp effigy. For the blood sacrifice."

"Please, this is unbecoming of both of us."

"It's no use pretending, I know all about your shrimp ritual."

"What do you mean, the Opera's in bed with the Weeping Eye?"

"No, no. I think you've got our lines backward. It should be you explaining this to me..."

"Of course it makes a certain sense. Better optics, for one..."

Each new sentence is appended to the puzzle of the preceding ones.

The Operant Bureau is plunging in the rankings with each passing moment. Relegation zone, coming up!

"What's the Weeping Eye want with you?"

"Well, not me, it's poor Facundo they've got it in for." His flicks his eyebrows twice. "But don't tell them that."

"This whole 'ritual' is Tesoro's darling. A techno-political sacrifice. A chance to knock off a hated rival. You're simply the hired knife."

SUBVERSIVE MURMURINGS INTENDED ONLY TO CONFUSE THE PEOPLE'S SPY. DISREGARD.

The feeling of a rug being ripped from under your feet. Beneath there is no floor, only void.

"By the way, are you certain you're a communist? You don't look how I pictured them."

"I'm from the Opera, who the fuck is 'Tesoro'?"

"Psssst, keep it down! I expect he's listening to us right now. Best not to offend him with your ignorance."

"Tesoro Buendia is the chief of the Weeping Eye. One of Anonimo's oh-so-honoured imprints, and one of the most feared men in the Imperio Illuminado. I think your people call him 'the Hundred-Eyed Golem'."

He is the hiss in the tapped phone, the thud of boots in the hallway, the unmarked car and the form letter to next of kin with the bill for the bullet.

HERE COMES TECHNO-FASCIST DAREDEVIL.

"And I'm quite certain he knows who you are. An awkward situation, I bet."

As the old man speaks, a little bubble of doubt rises up from your subconscious and bursts through the surface of your awareness.

"But then how was I able to get up here..."

"Great question." He nods encouragingly. "Keep going."

"... without anyone stopping me?"

"Seems odd, doesn't it? I thought we had better goons than that."

"... unless I was supposed to."

"All the better for Tesoro, don't you think? Communist thugs murder his greatest internal rival, all he has to do is... nothing at all..."

"It must've been my hyper spy skills. My enemies had no idea I was coming."

"Oh, sure. Hyper spy skills. I wish I had those."

"Shut up, shut up!"

"You're the one with the gun, I must oblige."

"I serve the Opera. My task is to zero out the Grand Lich. I have nothing to do with the Weeping Eye."

"Makes sense on its face, but if what you're saying is true, then I would've expected my fearsome secret police escort to stop you handily."

"Why does the Weeping Eye want to eliminate the Grand Lich?"

"No, no, no. They want you to eliminate me, or rather, him. This is what I've been saying -- disposable, professional!"

"Is that obvious? Y bien... it was not obvious to me."

Your would-be asset Ignatz wasn't far off. All's not right in the enemy camp.

Imprint-on-imprint violence. You're in the middle of an old mind attacking itself.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Why the Weeping Eye find it in their interest to eliminate their own Minister of Mass Culture, are we still on that? Okay, okay..." He shakes his head.

"Tesoro and the other hardliners never got on board with Facundo's 'Cultural Victory'. They don't really get what L-Pop is about. They see the techno and wonder 'where's the fascism?' I'm paraphrasing, but only slightly."

You suddenly picture Melita, Luzian features behind her clipped, trained Kohilan accent, smiling to herself as she manipulates you from a control room just across the Noscorrentes.

Stop, stop, stop. This is getting phantasmagoric. Your controller is right where she belongs, in Novessa, five-thousand kilometres away.

Could it be the 'Operant Bureau' is merely a projection of the Weeping Eye? Could it be in fact, all spy services are the same service, a monolithic god, watching over all...

Stay calm. Even if the Opera's purposes dovetail with those of the Weeping Eye, it makes no difference to your mission.

"They tailor-made this as a punishment just for me."

"I think more likely they tailor-made you for just this assignment."

Overdetermined, like so much else in the smashed and leaking world.

This old fool just wants to live. He's just trying to get under your skin.

"The question, as I see it, is whether you'll play the part that's been written for you. Of course, we could both just... fuck off."

"So I'm playing a dual-role... executioner and sacrifice."

"It's the challenging roles that are most rewarding, I've found."

"And so you're left with a dilemma. Or at the very least, a choice..."

"Melita, WHY!?" (Scream it.)

"Agonising, isn't it?"

"Everyone just happens to want the Lich dead. Unlucky if you're the Lich. Which as far as I'm concerned, you still are."

"You're saying I'm double-booked, in other words? No, I don't buy it. The coincidence is simply too much, for my tastes..."

"Everyone just happens to want the Lich wanged. Unlucky if you're the Lich. Which as far as I'm concerned, you still are."

"If this is a collaboration between the Opera and the Weeping Eye, I am... unaware of it."

"Maybe it was meant to be a surprise? In which event, sorry for spoiling it."

"I've heard Anonimo's imprints are degrading and turning on one another."

"Yes. The House of Anonimo is rotten to the foundations. Big secret, please keep it to yourself."

"A highly credible source told me the Golem has been against the secret treaties the Lich has been negotiating."

"Ahh, so the Opera's been doing some sneaky sneaking of its own. Good, that's a good twist."

"It's our working thesis that the Luzians plan to commit some kind of war crime against themselves."

"They couldn't have picked a better backdrop for it. Beautiful day, the ginkyo leaves and all..."