Poetics

You face Shelf G once more.

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

You blink against the cold air. Mountains ascend slowly outside.

You open the Renotel distribution panel once more. After pressing the ON button, you push the Voskol Auto-Negotiator's cord into the…

Among the many sections of the cabinet you find a small stack of papers. The first page is filled with what looks like a set of printed…

You return to the folded pants.

"I'll be off soon so get whatever you need now."

You return to the wasteland.

A low, tilting shelf marked in heavy block letters: 'DESPISED SUBGENRES'.

The monkey is still hiding in the shadows.

You unfold the cipher and remember the instructions extracted from the novel:

The vending machine awaits your selection, yet seems utterly indifferent to it.

The metal drawer slides out nearly soundlessly, revealing rows of official-looking folders.

"Back again, CASCADE? Might want to, you know, get the fuck on with it."

The fax machine hums faintly. A single sheet sits in the tray, edges curled like a beckoning finger.

"Please, if you see Karolina. Do let me know."

"Still waiting, CASCADE. Slab's getting cold."

"Shh."

"Hello again."

You approach your double. A faint line of drool darkens the sheet.

"Loneliest... of towns..."

"I already told you, miss. You can't come through here. Try the other entrance." He waves you off.

You return to the framed photographs.

The container is still overfull with rubbish.

He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.

The girl in the postcard still wants you to join her fan club.

There's nothing to do here.

You return to one of the city's ancient benches. It welcomes you.

"Hello, hero."

An assortment of cargo crates sits in waiting, adorned with faint chalk marks and bright yellow labels.

You return to the desk. Everything is right where you left it, including the pack of Suprema 100s.

The vandalised jukebox is where you left it, looking slightly more dispirited on second visit.

"You're back." She eyes you warily.

He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore PSEUDOPOD. He looks extremely uncomfortable.

The man's eyes are closed. He is completely still.

The tree has fulfilled its task. Now time for you to fulfill yours.

"I really think you'd dig this. You look like the type."

"Back again, Hershel."

H.S. Lastra's blood-obsessed pulp epic awaits you.

With awkward reverence, you approach the shrine again.

He turns his head toward you in slow-motion and barely.

The lump of flesh you extracted from HOLOCENE's head sloshes about in the mysterious red liquid.

"You've come back."

"Operant. Something big is happening, isn't it?"

The magic box hums its secret tune. In a dark Novessa sub-basement, your controller answers.

The sleek metal callbox stands guard.

The cleaning tuk-tuk with its soap bubbles and secrets seems almost prestigious now.

The building noticeboard stands beside a communal area, full of ads and scraps of daily lives.

It all happens in milliseconds. A sharp blow to your elbow, the flashlight flying out of your grasp...

"Hello again." The subeditor smiles at you with the left side of her mouth.