Shadowplay

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.

The cat lounges.

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

The door looms before you once more.

"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.

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!"…

You return to the faded billboard.

"Back again."

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

You're being watched -- but not like that.

The owner seems to be out of sight.

The beam of your flashlight near blinds you with its reflection.

You look for shapes behind the glass -- nothing.

A large X over an article about extraterrestrial life.

This tank's not fuel. It's liquid oxygen.

A discarded newspaper... trash, or a sign?

The 'MIHO' fax mentioned Sub-Level 4. This is it.

The safety straps failed in their assignment.

Janitorial supplies would be kept in the basement, not up here.

Locks on every drawer in the desk.

Fine wine, temptingly open.

Someone braved the stairs just to leave their tag here.

Zoning permits, eviction logs -- dated 75. A taxonomy of the Pitol Tract's erasure.

You catch a glimpse of your face, unaware and unmasked. Then it's gone.

The iron railing sagged beneath your elbows when Tempo leaned on it beside you.

Small white and blue feathers, a few droppings. Birds made a home.

Shimmering, diaphanous cloth catches your eye.

The secluded booth, scene of countless intelligence trysts.

For the first time in years, no one is watching you.

Under the overturned hull, a perfect hiding spot...

Doors crowd you, stacked upon each other. Behind one of them -- your former asset, ESTOC, draped in a see-through cloak.

A punch-card scanner. The screen would've shown on-site personnel.

Encrypted notes. Each paragraph uses its own cypher-type -- impressive.

A not-so-casual lean -- he's guarding what's inside.

Something's in there.

PAL. A Developed World competitor to Luz's Sonido tech.