Personalism

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 return to the folded pants.

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

You return to the wasteland.

Water sloshes quietly against the hull of the boat. The door is closed firm.

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

The monkey is still hiding in the shadows.

You return to the graffiti wall.

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

The desk is as you left it.

You take out the medical dummy once more.

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

'RE-NO-TEL.' The ringing feels like it's come from another reality entirely.

"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."

You return to the residents' list.

"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.

You return to the collapsing pneumatic system.

He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.

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

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.

You return to the boiler.

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

The girl is far too preoccupied fiddling with her fishing wire to pay any attention to you.

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

"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."

You step into the booth and press the receiver to your ear.

"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.