Grey Matter

"Anything interesting in the shack back there?" He smiles at you.

"You should move, CASCADE."

Whatever light that's slipped in from above has nearly drained away.

You crawl back into the tunnel, as far in as you were before, where it starts to shrink.

The familiar Renotel chime hits your ear.

The control unit idles in its cradle, lights softened to a tired glow.

As you press down on the intercom button, a little light comes on.

"I'm here to support you, trade agent. What do you need?"

The fire door stands between you and the roof. Unfortunately, someone removed the pelota ball that was wedging it open.

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

You return to the lone payphone.

A shade in a leather jacket thrusts a decapitated head towards the reader -- its lolling tongue and dripping viscera a promise of what's…

There is nothing more for you here.

The weight of the thesis threatens to strain your hand muscles.

You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.

"Hello again."

"Back again, are we?"

"How goes it, H?"

A cosmonaut suit, a relic of Project AUTONOMÍA. Its shoulder patch reads, 'The Stars Are Ours, 77'.

The cat lounges.

The satchel by the door is empty, but the rain boots haven't moved.

The door looms before you once more.

Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.

"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."

The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

There they all are, just as you left them.

One more phone, one more voice.

"Operant."

The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.

"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."

The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…

You return to the faded billboard.

"Back again."

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

On the note: 'Death Whistle -- leather or rubber for throat surrogate?'

Someone's left a book here.

You can't see much at all. You need a light.

Gneiss, formed by pressure.

Tiny diodes scattered across the bedside table's surface, abandoned mid-project.

These floor cups are full of... piss.

Nobody will see a hand slip into a postbox in this dark corner.

Cargo and supplies left where they fell.

An immovable concrete island.

Popcorn bags, all covered in the old cinema's logo.

A tuktuk-sized hole in the broken railing.

A motley collection. The title 'Make Yourself Un-unfuckable' jumps out at you.

Iridescent with petrol contamination.

Quarried rock. This travelled a great distance.

Files, redacted by rot.