DOUBLE

Your double gazes up from the ground -- dazed, glasses askew, eyes unfocused.

Close your eyes and double kick yourself.

You were never meant to be alone. This is your double. The archives are full of relevant materials.

Close your eyes and double kick the other yourself.

Your former double has busied himself with a loose piece of thread on his dressing gown sleeve.

Cheek smudged against floor, your double doesn't seem to be focused on you at all.

Only your double's advancing bald spot is visible to you over the rim of the chair.

Your double isn't here to celebrate your decryption. The chair on which you found your double is empty.

Finally, you muster up some action. You apply the key methodically, double-checking every letter with care and attention. All of which is good for:

Your double. PSEUDOPOD.

Your double marches resolutely away, down the mountain.

"You hold the mirror and guide me, H, I'll handle the cricket." He rips off a piece of double-sided tape and wraps it around the tip of a metal wire.

Oral imitation of double bass blastbeats. One kick with two pedals thundering nonstop thirty-second notes.

"My double. Did you zero him out?"

Your former double cannot hear you.

Put them all together. Your former double's carefully-placed torches will catch alight.

'Small controller' or 'former double' -- both possible entities are devious in their intelligence.

Situated on the bed, your would-be double could almost pass for a convalescent, were it not for his empty, fish-like eyes.

Restless eyes, evasive demeanour. This man may not have zeroed out your double, but you're sure such things aren't beyond him.

"That's an astonishingly rude way to talk about your double."

WITNESS THE DOUBLE CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE MIDDLE CLASS ON FULL DISPLAY.

"So don't even attempt to seduce me with your post-historical dialectics. Your double already tried his hardest. I'm here strictly for the espionage."

Upstairs, your double twitches, electrical reflex running to a dead switchboard.

"That is an awful way to talk about your double." She glares. "He ran towards the roundabout, I think -- you owe him quite the apology."

She's dying inside. She felt a great deal of affection for your double.

"He's your double, operant."

"Speaking of, where is your double?" She cranes her neck, as though looking for something behind you.

Your double's condition is of secondary importance.

"The whole 'catatonic double' concept: very original. Fair play."

"Your zeroed out double... you're serious?"

"You don't really expect me to leave my double like this, do you?"

"Your zeroed out double... you're serious?"

Spring morning. The girl tugs her father's hand. She presses her nose against the cool glass. A double-deck commuter train, 1/160 scale, rattles across a miniature country scene.

"CASCADE. Is your double zeroed out, or not?"

"Melita, my double's been zeroed out. Something's very wrong here."

That's assuming it's a legitimate defection and not a double bluff from a vastly superior operant.

"I'll ask one more time. Is your double zeroed out?"

Your former double stands amidst the bodies, unharmed and unperturbed.

Your former double pushes his gun into his distressingly short shorts and wipes his hands on them.

Overloaded. Working double-hard.

A Wachbann door. Double-skin boron-alloy, tungsten-carbide backing, sixty millimetre core. High-end prison-grade.

Your former double catches your eye, then looks down and pads the floor with his shoe.

Your former double has busied himself with a loose piece of thread on his dressing gown sleeve.

Of course. There is a room behind this one, locked within your former double's head.

Did you take out my double, beautiful projection?

Did you take out my double, beautiful projection?

"That's a very divergent type theory, Hershel. I would not repeat that too loud or too often. People might think you've gotten like your old double."

"Oh, Hershel, I did not know that the daily special was letting your friend down with an extra serving of betrayal. How much did they pay you to double-cross me?"

The lanky man flicks a palm-sized toy scooter out of his pocket like a switchblade, performs a miniature double flip, then looks to you for a reaction.

"Cloven Hoof." He holds his fingers up in a double-devil-horn gesture.