Technoflex

Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.

"You should move, CASCADE."

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

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

"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.

You return to the lone payphone.

The stereo is right where you left it.

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.

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

You stand before Tempo's door once more.

"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 door looms before you once more.

The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

The gate stands before you, still locked.

One more phone, one more voice.

Light refracts within your cornea; you are someone else, somewhere else.

"Operant."

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

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

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

"Back again."

The press runs hot, so she has to crack a window.

An enthusiastic approach to electrical engineering.

'...and he comes in on the left wing... and scoooooores!'

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

This elevator goes straight to the roof.

The light has begun the slow process of burning out.

Huge black lenses, gaping and slick.

The shutter is stuck halfway open, gears jammed.

Static. Someone needs to clamber to the roof, jostle the antennae.

For use in event of state emergency.

Steel levers, frozen mid-pull.

A rotary dial phone with a long-forgotten number.

Its function long forgotten, the mysterious lever calls out to be used.

Very old typewriter. Must keep it for nostalgia.

Industrial drainage. It'll flush away whatever drips through the floor.

A platoon of drawers towers above you, rattling as you walk.

These babies at max volume would blow the houseboat clear out of the water.

Out of order. A severed dendrite in the city's nervous system

A modern word processor, complete with 7-segment display.

Womb-grown bullets... perhaps there is such a thing as a perfect animal.

Cleverly modified to pick up pirate radio broadcasts.

The arteries of this forgotten machine.

Your flashlight beam pans across a series of steel shelves on floor rails. Some aisles sit half open.

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

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