The script

Dialogue transcripts

Proofs for the next issue, pinned for review.

PROPAGANDA.

PROPAGANDA. THE CONSUMERISM MUST BE THIS WAY.

Propellant cylinders. The warning signs are in Mircean.

Propped open to let in fresh air.

Protection out of joint.

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

PSEUDOPOD, you presume.

Psychology textbooks and heavily leafed notebooks.

Put on your seatbelt, Hershel. The future is here.

Quarried rock. This travelled a great distance.

Radio's dead -- shame, this would be a great party spot.

Rain boots, distinctly splotched with colour.

Rainboots. They'd look good on us.

Ramses' body, breathing softly.

Ramses' disc collection: hours upon days of violent noise, not for the uninitiated.

Real thick future shit.

Refrigerated. The office's supply of coffee?

Reminds you of childhood visits to the Landau Royal Zoo.

Reminds you of your year 8 school trip to the Landau oil refinery.

Remnants from a past equal parts in surveillance and music.

Remnants of sky-blue paint on the metal dome.

Reno owns the transit company.

Renovation materials.

Repurposed conference table, its legs sawn. The 'mattress' is industrial foam.

Rest your elbows on the railing.

Revolving security guards lived here in shifts.

Rickety stairs leading downwards, towards the canal.

Right speaker stacked upon left -- a crime against acoustics.

Ripples of electrons scan across the display.

Rotanev's shrine sits undisturbed under its worn wooden awning.

Rubbish, kicked but never collected.

Rust halfway through devouring the support beams.

Rust-soldered and gathering mould, these controls no longer seem to do anything.

Rustamian letters, written in a hand so shaky the characters threaten to break apart.

Safety guidelines for contractors, stamped by a Portofiran office.

Sandstone. This island was once an ancient seabed.

Satisfyingly geometric, carved deep.

Scalpel. Clamps. Sutures. All meticulously accounted for.

Scattered items beginning to gather dust.

Scattered star stickers, edges curled, cling to the EXIT sign.

Scrap silk, salvaged from the ruins of Essilk #3.

Screenburned ghosts on glass.

Screens covered in black tape. No chance of reflection.

Scribble time: GÄNG 4EVER. SUK YA DAD.

Scribbled under a warning sign: 'CHECK PRESSURES HOURLY.'

Scuff marks run across the grain.

Secondhand chairs. Probably picked up from the alley downstairs.

Seeing these binders reminds you of your own red folder in Foto24.

Shadowed waters wrinkle below; an isolated cutout of an abyssal sea.