Nerve

"Didn't work, did it?"

"Hello, lapinette."

"Hi again. Still not leaving yet, sorry." She puffs on her pipe.

"..." His idiotic expression remains unchanged.

"You. Again." The tapping begins.

You loom once more over the shrine and its congregation of frames.

The ration pack crinkles as you turn it over.

"CASCADE." The barest of nods. "I've been playing 'I Spy' relentlessly with myself to pass the time. Pretty even as things stand, but I'm…

You return to the postbox.

"..."

"My agent of fortune returns. Happy Dante."

The one personal touch in the otherwise sterile, bland clinic, the wall has been decorated with photographs, documents, evidence of Dr.…

The pink paper tab is no bigger than a fingernail. One side is decorated with a simple illustration of a cockerel.

"Dull the blade, and unsteady the hand. The great CASCADE makes her appearance at last."

"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.

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.

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.

You stand before Tempo's door once more.

"Hello again."

You return to the shrine under the stairs.

"Back again, are we?"

"How goes it, H?"

Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.

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 novel lies where you left it, gathering expensive dust -- 'Blood Type: Hecatomb' by H. S. Lastra.

"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."

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."

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!"…

"Back again."

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

A grey, gelatinous slime thrives at the bottom of the rusted pails.

AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.

A tunnel into darkness.

Hairbrush, moisturiser, and an empty glass.

Very little remains of the luggage rack.