The script

Dialogue transcripts

Cobblestones shift under your heel.

Cold light filters through windows semi-opaque with dust.

Cold, moistened air raises the hairs on your neck.

Collapse imminent.

Concrete's cracked. Tree roots attacking.

Conspiracies, pelota, and sometimes, conspiracies about pelota.

Construction materials still in their box, somehow gathering rust.

contemptuous hiss

CONTRABAND CRATES -- AMMUNITION FOR THE NEXT SALVO OF LUZIAN CULTURAL WARFARE.

Cool beard.

Cool place to hang.

Copper and steel decay.

Copper light spilled across Party Alley. With the tip of his cigarette, Vespar indicated another building. You'd lost track of how many.

Could crack this open.

Could jump this easily. You just don't need to.

Cozy.

Cracked screens, shattered keys. Someone wanted this thing dead.

Creeping ivy, the same variety that climbed your first apartment in Kohila.

Crochet cushions.

Curled in on herself, staring at her hands, muttering.

Damp cardboard. 'FLOOR SEALED', badly scribbled over.

Darkened, grease-stained glass. Only faint shapes visible beyond.

Dated: 76. We were teens. Life loomed. And now, we're here.

Debt is platonic, Hersh. Big or small, it doesn't exist as long as you don't pay it.

Decommissioned petrol pumps.

Degeneracy.

Designed to look sporty, but covered in glitter.

Detached plugs, powerless.

Detritus everywhere. Watch your step.

Dishes. Recently washed.

Dissected and abandoned.

Distance disappearing into darkness.

Documents with the Renotel dolphin at their head.

Does it make you feel powerful? To live so many lives in sequence and in parallel?

Don't fucking look down!

Don't look down.

Don't look down.

Don't recognise any of these bands. Been gone too long.

Donations. It is unclear to what, though the nature of the shrine suggests war crimes.

Door shut, windows dark. No-one is home.

Doors crowd you, stacked upon each other. Behind one of them -- your former asset, ESTOC, draped in a see-through cloak.

Down below, a viscous carpet of grey-green undulates softly.

Dozens of personnel files, the specifics redacted with a roller-stamp.

Dried soap bubbles leave rainbow smears.

Dried white paint -- matte. Good for covering up steel.

Drunk enough that if the building collapses, he won't care.

Dumped in the dead of night, hoping to avoid a fine.

Dustless below the tarp, awaiting an unveiling that will never come.

Easier to write off the loss than attempt to recover it.

Eastward, the city blossoms outward like a fractal, unto the island's edge.