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The script

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A stethoscope, abandoned mid-procedure.

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A sticky note reminds him to pay the cleaners.

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A stonemason stops to admire his patterned brickwork around the new sapling.

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A stray cat hops soundlessly over a nearby wall. Your double turns to you.

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A street shrine with no street.

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A swarm of tiny, nearly invisible crabs skitter over rebar and concrete.

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A sweet fragrance floats across the top level of the room.

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A system of complex interlocking mechanisms, crank rusted into place.

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A table for all tasks. Shrunk to fit, still managing.

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A tangle of limbs collapsed over a single, dark puddle.

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A temporary cargo storage shed.

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A theatre of inorganic decay.

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A thin crust of salt and jet fuel.

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A timetable of flights to and from Ile-de-Söze is tacked in the board's centre.

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A tiny, framed print of the Hill of Pigs' skyline -- an attempt at coziness.

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A tiny, iridescent crustacean skitters out from under a rock.

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A torrential staining of blood.

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A tower of back issues, doomed to remain unread.

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A tower of different media players welded together.

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A tuktuk-sized hole in the broken railing.

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A tunnel into darkness.

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A typed page lies upside-down in a stack of similarly formatted files. The cover reads: 'Remote Viewing Testimonial N.28'.

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A user console with a keyboard and monitor.

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A very large poster... hiding a crack in the wall.

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A very old rota for building maintenance tasks.

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A Viaje Estrella 500 tuktuk, old but well-maintained.

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A view out to sea -- bobbing buoys, phantom ship lights.

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A view to the outside -- swaying, pleasantly edgeless.

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A vital signs monitor displays the stats of a frail patient.

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A void behind the boards.

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A weak AC fan struggles overhead.

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A weather-worn building looms over you, its back to the road. Yellow-beige plaster peels like parchment, exposing old brickwork.

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A weathered aluminium sign warning against docking here.

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A welder's mask with few burn marks.

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A wheel once turned to perform kinetic miracles.

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A whiff of old ammonia. Still burns the throat.

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A window for poets and photographers.

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A wolf cup, placid.

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A wolf cup...

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A workman's hammock, for hidden naps.

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A Zatiros-3 unit -- manufactured in Tsun's Arc, not Portofiro.

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Abandoned noodles. They smell strongly of gin.

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Absolute hostility on behalf of the infiltrator must be presumed. It is the only sane approach.

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Abstract but still humanoid.

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Accepted submissions -- original drafts.

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Ad for shrimp. Fat, crisp, fried.

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Admiral Oro. You recognise his name from a college class on the history of genocide.

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Ads for boxing lessons and protein powder, clustered together for safety.

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Ads for one of Reno's many interests.

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Ahead, the electric hum and rhythmic clatter of an aero-tram station.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 7 of 26