Suddenly you tense up, blood is being pushed to your muscles. You should hound him on this, hound him *hard*, the prey drive says. More. Press on, push through... Cuno is silent. Aggression gathers in the air, the trigger feels delicate and ready to break under your finger. Takes one to know one. Confirmed. It's unsafe. Your muscles tense up. The vision in your dead angle darkens. You feel the sudden urge to push your hand into his soft gut. *I* think he's dead -- and about to explode. The pattern does not stir patriotic or religious sentiment in you. What it does is speak to the wounded, limping animal -- the male in particular. Unable to communicate in anything more than grunts, it's impossible to tell if it's advice is right or wrong... Is he now? A sense of danger emanates from the remains of the person in front of you. She feels like quarry, encircled... Her eyes dart to the door. Now she's trapped here, in the cage -- just like you. Oh my... Sheer terror. Panic and screaming. She planned on fuckin' shooting herself in the goddamned head. You have her! Now twist the knife... Enough of this! She better start talking RIGHT NOW! Surprise -- tempered with fear and trepidation. He doesn't know what to think yet. Maybe you're joking? You don't *have* to do anything. Your pulse rises. That bird ain't no symbol of hope. It's a menace and a traitor! What you want is a GOD DAMN DRINK. How is that so hard to understand? FUCK SORRY. FUCK HIM. HE TREATED YOU LIKE GODDAMN HUMAN WASTE. How could ANYONE forget, asshole?! NO, FUCK HIM. HE TREATED YOU LIKE GODDAMN HUMAN WASTE. Damn you fat Evrart, your novelty check is useless! That fucking smug asshole, he knows you've been locked out of your room. He's probably laughing at you now on the inside. THIS ISN'T A FUCKING JOKE. Oh no, you're a cop, you can't go to jail... Your heart beats twice, like a fist. The serotonin deficiency makes your teeth clench. It wasn't that you were horrified -- you were just surprised by your own daring! It wasn't that you were horrified -- you were just surprised by your own daring! Whether they like it or not. Ram it up their ears, says your adrenaline gland. Violently express yourself. THE PRYBAR! *Full* of itself. Content, happy you failed. This snickering trash container is having a grand old time. WHAT IS THIS? Your triceps ache for the metal to bend, but it resists... this calls for a potent curse to help break it's resistance. Utter the POWER WORDS! Your neck tie sounds very scared. NEVER take it off. You suddenly feel afraid of the chair. It looks like blood is peeling off it... Your neck tie sounds very scared. It's unsafe not to wear it. Put it back. No. This one is a monster in disguise. Damn this. Make her answer. I don't like the sound of any of that. Sounds like a horrible drug. The worst one of them all. He approves of this radical approach. Knows it was *necessary*. The building's coming down on you, you need to get out of here! Like when he had the hanged man in his sights? You're a dead man. OH MY GOD!!!! A madwoman is pointing a gun at a cop and you're thinking about warning shots?! Fuck the protocol! Shoot to kill. Take her to the farm. Put her down. OH MY GOD, YES!!!! A madwoman is pointing a gun at two police officers and you're thinking about warning shots?! Fuck the protocol! Take her out! *Change the topic* -- the way he says it makes it almost sound like a threat. These people deserve to *die*. They're all dorks. He was acting tough before. This definitely scared him a little, you being here. He was acting tough before. This probably scared him a bit. Who knows when it will come in handy -- a slightly scared racist lorryman? The bright future of Revachol reflects off Germaine Egg Head's giant smile. A world of Revacholian domination, where its shores are bereft of ill influence. You can't be scared of moving a lil bit, are you?! Get the grind on! A pair of frightened hares cowering in some dark crevice of their burrow. Something about this one makes you want to avoid dark alleys at night... It's like you sucker-punched him *with your words*. The beast is *you*, a mass of teeth and claws and violent urges. This is what you've been waiting for! Time to lay his little punk-ass out. On the contrary, he appears to be *savouring* the thought of so many people shot in the head, regardless of their beliefs. Why do you see the two of them with their backs against a bullet-pocked wall, all of a sudden? Now's your chance to avenge yourself for your embarrassment by the harbour gates. Why do you always leave out the good parts? Tell him how he got his *true name*, right now! Even if they won't admit it, these two love blood and sex as much as anyone. Now's your chance to redeem yourself for that dive you took before the gremlin child. *YAWWWWN!* Can you imagine anything duller than a bunch of binoclards yanking each others' knobs? He won't be the first unweaned punk you've shut down. You'll make mincemeat of this fool's jaw. You've done it before, and against a *much* tougher opponent. You'll make mincemeat of this fool's jaw. This flimsy magazine is right. Deep down you know the only *true* stakes are life and glory, or death by fiery dismemberment. He is your brother, a fellow *doom prophet*. Picture the lot of them, all standing with their fingers in the air one minute, the next reduced to a bloody mist! D-d-did that book just say there's no place for you in this future? MASS EXECUTIONS. She's gotta be jerking your chain, right? You can't wait that long! Just *run*. Unplug that headset and get as far away as you can. She can't treat you that way! Let her know what you *really think* of her! Don't let the paintjob fool you, it's a goddamn killing machine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! Don't let the shiny lights fool you, it's a goddamn killing machine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! Just take my money and leave me alone! Oh no, not a *happening*!! I don't like the sound of that... Quick, kill it with fire before it organises a *happening*! Look -- up there! It is he who sirens. Syntagmatarchis Trypa! Here, upon us, to warn of the mangy jowls of The Gloaming. Don't talk to him any longer. Just leave, please. And dangerous. Somewhere below it all... His neck muscles tense up, the veins on his neck bulge. Be careful -- he's holding it *deep* in but there are things in there you don't want to meet. He's stopping this to control himself. You were on to something. What did he just call you?! A f*g? Oh no, not this again, you just got away from that fucking kid... He means -- a more violent faction could easily take care of such a thing. You can smell all sorts of things... fear, disgust, desire. Not communism, though. Scared? Angry? It's hard to say which this man is. No, that's not it... it's something more. Something closer to your skin... He's open, rip into him. Right hook. Escalate it, get *intimate* with him... bring the hurt closer! No, don't be a fucking ballerina, rip into him, right hook! Get *intimate* with him... bring the hurt closer! This is your chance, he's talking... rip into him with a punch and catch him off guard. Like fucking sleigh bells! What are you doing, you're gonna get caught! He's afraid, what might happen if his *opinionated* partner is allowed to speak his mind freely. Especially bad news for cops who may have something in their past they don't even *know* is there. She calls that customer service?! Anger and loneliness keep this woman moving through the waking hours. Your little words are no match for it. Blech! You deny your own Revacholian blood for the sake of a lie! She's too afraid to even say the word. What you *discover*? A demonic refrigerator! Perhaps the fridge will be the source of the curse... Lies. Rip them open, we say! Okay. So what's in there has a will and it *wants* you to enter? This is bad. You should punch a fucking hole in it. You'd lie too, wouldn't you? You'd lie and steal and cheat! Ask her again, squeeze the truth out of her. Keep pressing. Ask, ask, *ask*! What is this *doubt* you have then? Something *has* happened here. Hold on! Did she just laugh at disco? You're not going to leave it there, are you? SHE'S LYING, LYING, LYING! Hold on! Did she just laugh at your disco pants? You're not going to leave it there, are you? She's lying. She's god damn lying, she has smokes! Like a nervous cat, he keeps stealing looks at the neighbouring windows. Someone hides behind a curtain: those windows have eyes and those eyes are watching, spying on you three. Someone hides behind a curtain: those windows have eyes and those eyes are watching, spying on you two. You better behave yourself in this Frittte. Or who knows what will happen. There's more here. He's *afraid* of this crowd, whoever they are. More than he is of the racist lorryman. THE ITCH IS SO BAD YOU'LL WANT TO SMASH SOMEONE'S FACE IN. Anger boils up in your chest... Just seeing the words "Andro-Orlando" gets your hackles up. It's very existence is a *threat* to your masculinity, to say nothing of your hair. You're going to just stand there and *take it* from a doorbell? Trust me, you don't want to know. The jig is up! The she-demon knows you've uncovered her true identity. Scary... but *cool*. It's because she's in cahoots with the demons! She doesn't let it show, but there's anger in there -- she doesn't like jewellers. Thinks they're a mob. And it's a woman! Of course! The malicious entities are *always* women. Then what was the chatter you heard? Rip the red one out! Look how giant and red and inviting it is... This ice bear is a hypercarnivore. Be careful. Its eyes are dead, but it's still terrifying... Run before it wakes up! No. It's scarier than that. You're *pursued* by a hunter. Smelling of apricots and sorrow. And the past. Thanks for nothing. Just punch the damned door. No *locks* are going to keep you out. And *sometimes* it isn't. *She's* not afraid, however. Does that make her not dangerous? Of course you've killed people. It's somewhere down there, melting in all the drink... He's not exaggerating about that mortal danger. Just calmly factoring it in. Your fists clench and your pulse rises uncomfortably. Check out the big balls on Fire Cop... No! You're not a snivelling shit-heel chasing imaginary karma-coupons! Not for this, nor the afterlife! Fuck this honour shit! Don't be so relieved yet, Gary. This bad cop may have been in *your* apartment, admiring your mug collection. Perhaps a little intimidation? This scared him proper. He's positively *melting* from fear. Has to prop himself up with a lot of anger to keep it together. This scared him proper. He's positively *melting* from fear. Has to prop himself up with a lot of anger to keep it together. Could it be that someone is listening in on *this* conversation? Are there bugs in the reeds -- not only insects, but tiny Seolite bugs -- or maybe even some of the bugs *are bugged themselves*... He's trying not to look afraid, because that would be incriminating. Yet he *is*. Here it comes. Death. There's no way, you're just gonna die. Just close your eyes when it happens... No, he didn't -- he's about to open fire. Whatever you do -- stop wasting your time *thinking* about it. Whatever you do -- stop wasting your time *thinking* about it. Whatever you do -- stop wasting your time *thinking* about it. Oh god, Harry! Oh god, Harry, what did you do...?! Oh god, Harry! Oh god, Harry, what did you do...?! *People* yes, but not *you*. Everything is *not* okay. That son of a bitch scammed you! Probably to *make fun of you*... You stupid... *why* did you say that?! She's afraid -- and so are you. Man up and cut to the point. Don't let the paintjob fool you, it's a goddamn killing machine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! Yes, back inside. Keep yourself safe from the killing. YES. Killing was his business and business was *good*. Don't let the shiny lights fool you, it's a goddamn killing machine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! What is it about this 'benevolence' that makes you break out in sweat and want to run for the hills? Yeah, *yeah*! Let's *fuck* with him! Who does he think he is, assisting *you*? There's still plenty to be scared of here. Just not what you thought. It doesn't give a shit that you're a cop! Stop your hand now or you're gonna die! The bear is trying to wake up! There's still plenty to be scared of here. Just not what you thought. I'm getting a really dark vibe from this. This... won't be pretty. She's losing it -- one twitch and there will be blood. You shouldn't be here. Something's very wrong with her. She's completely out of control. Enough! Fry me some bacon! Doesn't want to hurt her?! This is flight or fight -- do or die. He's just making up fancy words. This doesn't mean anything! Don't let the shiny lights fool you, it's a goddamn killing machine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! Don't let the paintjob fool you, it's a goddamn killing machine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! He's just making up fancy words. This doesn't mean anything! That sounds bad -- a log-in *attempt*. Something a criminal would do. Oh no... it was already glowing and now it's also making a *sound*? It's probably some alien Seolite technology... See? Even one of the spookers themselves says it's unnerving. Pitiful and terrifying. You feel your pulse rise with each ring... Both pitiful and terrifying. You feel your pulse rising with each ring... Though he used to. A long time ago. Some of them might. A black grain, hanging in the air... This is embarrassing... It will devour everything. That comforts her. Cold sweat trickles down your spine... This is spooky as hell. There's tightness in your chest; anxiety. Wow. She really doesn't. Not afraid, this one. Look at how pleased she is with herself, playing with her 'important science machines'. Academics!! Don't let the quiet fool you -- the beast is in there somewhere, ready to rip you to shreds with a broken bottle... Nothing happens?! It must be an ambush... Let's get your adrenaline pumping, just in case. Those snow crabs are worse than they sound. This kid is way, way worse than the other one. If anything, you're afraid she'll take *you* out one day... She means it. The fear is real. USE BIGGER WORDS!!! She's worried she might have accidentally done something bad. Then she remembers it's *you*. The fucking nerves on her?! Trying to hide behind WEAKNESS. You're a GOD. An angry but JUST God. She's worried she might have accidentally done something bad. Then she remembers it's *you*. Sounds like it's going to be bad. Do you really want to know? People tried to back away from you or even slip out of the door, but you screamed: I AM THE GODDAMNED LAW AND YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME, YOU ARE ALL SUSPECTS IN A MURDER INVESTIGATION! You really fucked him. His jaw is clenched and his quadruple-chin is quivering with hatred. This is *decades* of hatred speaking right now. The world is swallowed by a black hole of fear. Only two words escape its gravitational pull: *lost* and *gun*. Scare them. Suspected of some *big crime*! Really? *None.* Maybe just a *tiny* bit of annoyance. Your kill count. Yours will surely have your kill count. You like this grimy *murdering*, don't you? This toilet paper will show everyone what a bum you are. How little you give a shit. This toilet paper will PUNISH the world. Kill them. They broke it. Your hand shakes. You're flushed with adrenaline. AND A FUCK YOU TO YOU *TOO*! That last one cuts a slash right through the paper. A hot flash of rage comes over you. For a moment there -- before it recedes -- you feel as though you might just squeeze a tear of anger out of your duct. Makes you wonder... why? Oh god, that sounds dangerous. Make sure you don't throw it out again. Fucking hell. This stinking tissue will show everyone what a bum you are. How little you give a shit. This toilet paper will PUNISH the world. Why yes there was. It was massive. Red eyes glowing in the dark. Is the lieutenant a little... scared? Just now when he looked around. That sounds bad -- a log-in *attempt*. Something a criminal would do. Oh no... it was already glowing and now it's also making a *sound*? It's probably some alien Seolite technology... Unbelievable!!! Who came up with those stupid passwords! What does she mean *that's not it*?! What's the password then??? *Qualified pleasure craft operator*... so charming. Where's the damn licence? How bad can the info she has be? Perhaps she even knew beforehand of your affliction? A sudden pinch of paranoia comes over you... The words *blood bath* sound cold in her mouth. They taste of iron and strawberries. You should show those meatheads exactly how *savage* you really are. Maybe a good bloodletting is just what Martinaise needs? It'll be all of them. The decision is already made. Fear seeps into you as you say it... It is. It is well within her character. Don't be. He was not performing. He was already picturing a war. This woman underestimates Evrart. It's sharp. You hear your pulse rise, the air feels caustic and cold suddenly. A cold fear seeps into you. The smile of a predator. No doubt what she's got in mind. Here's some *wisdom* lady. SAY THE DEATH THING. A quietly simmering rage. The apes will never change, they are all evil. End of discussion. Your jaw clenches -- give the lady a taste of your *wisdom*. His anger flares -- here it comes...! The blistering apathy of *fucking done*. Do not explain or defend yourself, attack. Who does this asshole think he is -- a *cop*? You should taste some. Danger? Another trap? He sees danger. Another trap perhaps? He must be cautious for a reason -- this man has decades of experience. He senses danger. Possibly a trap? You shouldn't ignore this -- the kid's got serious street smarts. Your foot is ready to explode and punish this *object*! What a dumb name -- Royalist Pinball. If they weren't broken, he would kick one of these machines about now. Of course! Damn... You are *not* afraid. This is a mere girl, she was someone's child but a decade ago. Do you? You *may* know... You *do* know how it is. She wouldn't, she doesn't have the Full Hoi in her. A flash of rage comes over you, the words have already left your mouth: And violence. Ice is forming on the inside of your chest cavity, cold sweat trickles down your neck... Bad news. Fucking *mind* games! Enough! Tighten it. You've got her. She's getting scared now. Of you -- the downstairs people. All of it. Why is she so *angry* then? If she's so sorry? Waiting for your teeth and talons to cut into... You *are*. This is not the end of this. Rage? Who knows the *dark currents* where lovers go? What the fuck WAS that!?! You don't fucking answer to FUCKING ANYONE. Some of that fear is still with her. She exhales sharply... She's fought outside that *gym* of hers. That much is clear. Moreover -- she would like to do it now: hit you. It's in her shoulders... You fool! What are you waiting for?! Mount a rescue operation and go get her back! You're a real killer, Harry. He was afraid. There is unveiled anger in his voice. That bag's on *you*. You could have done something, but you just stood there. Fuck... Just don't walk into another radio trap, okay... A suspicious request. Made out of fear? Oh, okay. So now he's *shy*. Now he's not talking, just wobbling around like he's afraid of something. A sudden wave of anxiety makes your skin crawl. A sudden anxious fear makes your skin crawl. A sudden wave of anxiety makes your skin crawl. He feels... uncomfortable suddenly. He feels... uncomfortable suddenly. Some kind of great terror. Worse than you've ever seen. Grand, violent pride swells in him. The danger levels here are hard to read. One moment he's a fire, the next -- a fire gone out. A shudder of disgust passes his right side. His left side remains motionless. Embers going out. He's high off the fear. It may have unknown, dangerous biochemical characteristics that help it maintain its camouflage. I am not palatable. Do not eat me. I am afraid. It's about to move, you can sense it! For a moment there, he was afraid you didn't *get it*, but he's calmer now, looking at it. It *definitely* had something to do with the ox-spray! It was repelled by you, as if it was scared. It *definitely* had something to do with that! It was repelled by you, as if it was scared. No. Stop. Be afraid. Perhaps it is preparing to *eat* its god? Get the fuck out of here. Fuck this place, fuck this world, fuck this life, fuck this body -- just fucking go. An uneasy knot forms in the pit of your stomach... Why the fuck can't he just admit it? Don't let this go. Hound him until he admits it. The entirety of Martinaise is watching you! They're shutting you up. Silencing you. Don't fucking drop your guard. Oh fuck... Check your pockets! Check your... holy fuck, you don't know where it is, do you?! Nothing is working! 10-22 the captain?! This sounds bad -- bad *and* scary, like being called to the headmaster's office in school. Now is a good time to say "fuck" and "ass" and so on, that'll make this all right. Don't trust him. For all you know *Du Bois* might be his name. You need to confirm this. You can see the map of Revachol in your head. Dozens of red arrows are pointing outwards from Martinaise. Moving all across the city. He is not. Waving the gun around doesn't sound good. None of this does. A true flash of anger in him -- as he thinks of her. Waving the gun around. Doesn't sound good. A true flash of anger in him -- as he thinks of her. An entire neighbourhood of... killers. Those Señorita Pineapple people are scary motherfuckers, decimating your state if you don't give them your pineapples. Separate one from the herd. As he speaks, his fists contract, going through the pulling motion again, savouring it. It won't be for long, she means. The man gets a strange gleam in his eyes. His fists contract as if going through the pulling motion again, savouring it. As he speaks, his fists contract, going through the pulling motion again, savouring it. No, fuck him. Murder rage never came from *nothing*. Hit him with the question again -- why'd he fucking do it? A fearful readiness, like an electrical charge, raises hairs in the room. As he speaks, his fists contract, going through the pulling motion again, savouring it. This is the petulant rage of someone who's at the end of their wits. He completely blew his fuse there. The calm act is completely gone. The most terrible fear. Bigger than any before. The man's fists under the table are balled -- you can tell from his neck and shoulders. He means it. He's about to blow his fuse. Scared? You should be too. A strange fear creeps over you, a metallic taste in your mouth. Change the subject. And a little -- just a *little* -- worried. It's the kind of chin-rubbing men -- often leaders -- do when they think of *punishment*. Now! Now is the time! Stop waiting. Now! Now is the time! Stop waiting. Now! Now is the time! Stop waiting. He's gonna do it, he's gonna shoot her! They're *afraid*. All of them. Trembling reeds in the wind. They'll run, scatter, soon. One by one. This did nothing. You think you were on to something?! You *just* wasted time... please, act. Beaten by a foster parent, or someone on the farm? She's scared now. She's realized you really are brain damaged. No one likes to see what you have to see every day. Poor apes on a stupid ball, with never enough money to do anything remarkable. Not good, not good, you're about to start suffocating, you have to stop this... WHAT? *Sold*?! What if he's grabbing a GUN?! A bargain?! No, it's not! He's trying to sweet-talk you into buying trash! A man like that in a neighbourhood like this? In a rickety house falling into the sea? There's fear in him. Use it to your advantage. Love is shit, loyalty is meaningless. You could *definitely* clear it with a flamethrower. He's really got himself worked up now. Dangerous stores of pent-up emotion there. His hackles are up, scanning for threats... DON'T FORGET TO TICKLE THE BEANBAG! Please just agree with him -- you're in the cage of a Semenese tiger. At his mercy. He can *end* you any time he chooses. Who needs love if you can wield *fear*. No, this is a *trap*... He will say or do something *horrible* if you go down this path... It's a trap!! No one knows what he might *do to you* once you're in there... No, no... this does *not* sound inviting! Knock him... THE *FUCK* OUT! Smells like physical violence... just like with Cuno and his dad. Smells like physical violence... Yes, but no one can see what happens *inside*... No! No. No-no-no-no. NO! You're not. You are *not* fishing for his sacred techniques -- they're not worth dying over! Huh, good... no more confrontations! Cannibalism? Yes, *imagine* it! Like an exo-skeleton powered by fear. Mmmm... the most beautiful smell in the world, fear. So the scary sentient mud is also immortal? That's good news. She's scared now. She's realized you really are brain damaged. She had no fear. Just surprise. There's a touch of *awe* in the way she enunciated the creature's name. Looks like a surveillance programme... She really doesn't like those *nut jobs*. Bad blood there. She's scared of room #12. So she doesn't. Not after *that one time*. There's a *that one time* here. Blast it before you face the beast, de Ruyter. You're going to need the encouragement. The *bang* is for all the scary things in the world... that may happen at any time. Yes. You can always do it in the evening. It will be less scary with a lot of people. Is that all she thinks it takes to be an artist? Outperform her with her own style. Make it *yours*. She's got you by the balls, chief. And she intends to squeeze them. How come you're letting this baby rat run circles around you? End this *now*. The *happening*, it's happening!! For the day you have to *fight* someone covered in the same material. I don't know... sounds pretty convincing to me. Klaasje didn't want to turn the lamp on. She was afraid of another shot. That strange distant fear is getting close now. It's a fear -- of *yourself.* She looks shaken. She wasn't surprised to be ratted out -- but *framed*? A fear fills you. A bad kind of fear. Of *yourself*. Judging eyes, like he's a fucking brain doctor. What the hell does he know? You didn't follow through. You should have shot her in the head. It's in you to do something like this -- kill her. Physically at least. You could pull the trigger if you had to. Something tells you you should be extra careful from now on. A doubt creeps over you. She sounds so sure of everything. So... not guilty. There's a sinister note in her voice. Even with the gun and the compressor, she's *afraid* of you. Damn it! Destroy that thing already! There's a sinister note in her voice. Even with the gun and the compressor, she's afraid of you. Fucking shit, I'm scared. What do I do? Who do I call? You should leave. Leave! Before anything happens... Still a bit rattled by the earlier shock? Scared little bitches... A threat? Retaliate immediately. You'll see -- they'll fall over like bitch-leaves. These boys ain't got the *cojones*. You don't feel very scared. It's now or never! Bigger guns! Large-calibre motherfuckers that leave exit wounds the size of grapefruits. Sweat pools up in your clavicles, a rancid smell of *fear*. Serves her right. She only cares about her sovereign's orb and her silk robes and getting to the aerodrome on time -- to *leave*. No, she doesn't care about you. She only cares about her shiny sovereign's orb and her silk robes and getting to the aerodrome on time -- to *leave*! I don't know... I don't want to be the party-pooper, but this *pale territory* sounds sort of dangerous. Maybe you *shouldn't* walk in it naked. Listening in on your calls? Between you and your station? A worrying prospect... You don't have any fuckin' problems! Not a single one! Should you? *Weirdos* sounds bad somehow. Is the amiable speedfreak becoming a bit cross with you? Sounds like it. Non-human means a predator. Time for a threat. He can't handle the pressure. Beneath the grandness, there is fear. It's unnerving. Prepare for an attack! He's right. It's incredibly annoying. This little weasel still isn't owning up to *ripping you off*! You really shouldn't touch it. ...and also scary to tell you. He dares to sit there in disbelief when you confront him about his own *scam*! FUCK OFF. Yes, but what if there's a killer on the loose? Two suspicious deaths in such a short time frame! These images speak to something burbling deep within you: The primal struggle of a bunch of violent apes just dukin' it out. That is what you came for, isn't it? A climactic bloodletting, where men are reduced to muscle and fury? No, beautiful naked people fucking in the bushes is what you came for. Sweat, cocks and and titties please! These images speak to something burbling deep within you: Quick! Find someone or something that needs to be gutted, beheaded, impaled on a spike! Breathing, are you sure? Your heart beats a little bit faster at this unnerving thought. Ready -- but something is coming. It always is. What's the matter? Afraid you've been hacking up your friends' bodies in the night? The name of the true killer? Boring, boring, BORING. Tear up this rulebook and commit some old-school atrocities! How can you let the lieutenant *dominate* you like that? You need to hit back, and *hard*! He's trying to avoid conflict at any cost. Mossback and his shitty ball are mocking you. You need to get angry. Use swear-words. Mention *spunk*. With a pinch of fear. Is he *denying* you information, when you clearly requested it?! That's it. We're blowing the lid off this man-jar! You *need* to know... things! Oh my god, stop this scheming and just demand the sandwich! Cuno... Primal. Violent. Look at his shit-eating grin... He knows there's nothing you can do to him. He's bullying you and you are helpless. Kill him. Kill him now. He won't see death coming. Don't fuck it up, you *need* a fridge. Titus makes no attempt to hide his disgust. Grief-stricken anger boils in him. His son? What a joke... *Everyone* is lying to you! Those cases were hard on you... Now that you start thinking about it -- maybe they *were* afraid of you... Fuck is that going to achieve? Being a smart-ass... making your nostrils flare. You sorry *fuck*! So worth it -- can you feel how liberating that was? De-compression completed. ... for the kill. Here we go! A trail of blood, the lieutenant smells it too... Helps him see all the *shit*... A spasm of rage, sudden and uncontrollable. Fucking communard! Fucking asshole! Look at him, just staring -- hit him where it hurts! Tear into him. Pile it on him. Everything you got on him, the more the better... Tear into him again. Pile it on him. Here we go! A trail of blood. You *see* the killer in him. Coughing from the thin intensity of his own voice. The words have run out, his eyes budge from their sockets. Helps him see all the *shit*... Helps him see all the *shit*... Damn, he saw you. He's watched it happen. An anger too, in addition to loneliness. A strange, uncalled for rage he seems to have no control over. A sudden pang of rage. Another, big spike of rage. Different from the one he has for her... Detest pushes the cobwebs out of his eyes, pushes the melancholy aside. He relishes it. He whispers with such predatory hunger it borders on *longing*. The disco whores are too much; hatred shuts down his brain's language centre, leaving only a nonsensical sputter. Threaten with PAIN. All human beings respect pain. It's the truth. Bordering on sentimentality, it drips out of him. Tempered by something familiar to you. A familiar rage. The flame of anger dulls in him. He tires of it, all of it... ... is what you want to say, but wait god damn it! With the words 'you're under...' still stuck in your throat you think: what if I *missed* something? He's not afraid of jail. He's afraid of something else... You feel your legs shaking under you and your gun hand rise instinctively... The last embers have gone out. The war is over. He's not afraid of jail. He's afraid of something else... You feel your legs shaking under you and your gun hand move to your holster -- to grab the gun... You feel your legs shaking under you and your gun hand move to your holster -- but you don't have a gun... He's not afraid of jail. He's afraid of something else. Maybe it's true? Oh no.... *all* in. Something cold wakes in the pit of your stomach: fear. Maybe it's predatory? Eat the bird, Uwe. It's the only way to survive. Liar. He doesn't have the guts to climb in there. He may not be able to do it, but he will try. Right now he believes he will. Fear. Must have been her first one. You only get it on the first one. He's not worried about prison. He just wants to antagonize you. Okay, maybe it doesn't *feel* like this did anything to them -- but they have to be fretting a *little*. Everyone is afraid of witnesses. *Witness* is a scary word. *They're* no more agitated than they were a minute ago. She is though. Oh my god, not this again! No! Your cheeks are burning red and you're sweating profusely... Genuine panic flies across the lieutenant's face. Sounds like someone's dam broke. The pressure in the room grows to a boiling point. *Nervous* snickering. There's a rush of adrenaline present. He's really prepped himself up for this. He has to. To keep the fear in check. It's hard to say if he really lost his temper or if this is another one of his tricks. This man... almost never angers visibly. This is weird. Not *nice* weird, but okay. That's right. A killer of humans. He's sincerely glad you're not a scary predator. Not to say relieved you're competent. He fears the discussion might lead to disagreements. As it often does. Now he is become the *Pissf****t*. There's no stopping you now. Decay and death. Staring into the cold hard kernel of things -- smooth like the acid in your stomach. Decay and death. There's the bench where you found the man. Even the pleasure wheel is rotting from inside. Back away -- very slowly... 'Fuck off, you bipedal rodent,' whispers its psionic eye. *That's* what they should've turned into a pinball game. Despite the colorful images on the backglass, there's definitely something sinister about the guy. Get those damn things off him right now. Panic starts taking you over. HALFLIGHT Yes, get him talking about the glasses, that'll drop his guard Get those damn things off him right now. Panic starts taking you over. Get those damn things off him right now. Panic starts taking you over. Drop it now! This thing will *eat* you. Fear and apprehension... You should ask what's out there first. An ominous, foreboding feeling fills you, as you look at the tie. Or has it been consigned there as punishment? You feel as though this creature is your *friend* and wants to reattach itself to your neck. So that you may continue your adventures together in this strange world! Abort! You clearly have not thought this through. You won't like what you will see there -- and you will never *un-become* it. No-no, not the voice! Make it stop... You are a terror even to yourself! Those words -- "tell me something else" -- feel like something you've said innumerable times before. Your mouth is the very shape of them. This is your chance to come up with a really good name for yourself. Get *creative* -- conceptualize! Something about it makes you feel bitter... No one is saying the multi-patterned necktie you found tied to the ceiling fan can *talk*. No one. It must be merely *imagination*, but... This feels... dangerous. Are you sure? No. You *feel* like it was something else -- but what? Looking straight at you. Helpless, trapped within itself. Like the scales of some ancient white monster, cracked and pearly. Delicate and fragile, they feel alien to the world around you. Out of place somehow. Like in a circus! When the circus leaves town and they tie a black spotted giraffe to the wall of a carry-pen! You still feel as though there might be some honour points. And if there are, you've surely earned one. You feel as though it would be *dangerous* to set this creature free to roam about the cosmos. Oops... His corpse is marked by stars. Somewhere below, military-grade Sad is dripping off the walls... you should say the first thing. It's honest. It will lead to introspection. The words *washed away* sound distant and strange suddenly. Somewhere far away, a dog barks. Isn't that odd? How *can* you run so much? If that's true then *Revacholian lit* would fit you like a glove. That's you alright. A black hound licking your own heels. Relax, you're not a 'new face'. She doesn't mean you. You are an outsider. And a cop, remember? Olden days were golden days. Life's lustre is lost on those who speed. Perhaps the mysterious music is somehow connected to the case? A rusálka, or a half-demonic *apsara*, singing... Does this *feel* like a *good* thing though? The 'Feld Electric' mural... you feel like you should go look at it again. Step *closer* this time. The sun sets for everyone. But you... you *feel* you should have it on you. Something bad might happen. Yes, it makes perfect sense. You're beginning to suspect there's something *para-natural* about this phasmid. Heartfelt gratitude -- but does it feel like closure? What *really* happened? But what if the information is vital -- on *the hunt*... Needless to say, you *must* ask her about the mysterious phasmid. But whose? For some reason, the words don't come out. Instead you instinctively touch your collar to check your necktie. A new dimension of reality will open. A portal is this bed of waste. Sleep there and awaken *elsewhere.* He should still know. You have to be *forewarned* about these things. Absolutely *in* the question! First we find a *sad* banger, then we sing this place to SHIT. What was that? Who's the *she*? And why do you feel so *bad' suddenly... Oh yeah. Time to do the damage. You feel bad suddenly. You see the delicate loops of the handwriting, in your mind's eye. You'll see her again one day. You know it. Things went like they did for a reason. Hmm... you feel like you should come back to this *thing*-based questionnaire if you see anything interesting in the Whirling later. Tell him. Tell him why it's you. There's something the lieutenant isn't seeing. The universe is too irrational, too morally complex. You should convince him. There's something in there. Not necessarily connected to the case -- but still... Beware. They're very *painful* secrets. Don't! Maybe you shouldn't... Nothing. It's nothing. Nothing more to see here. Will you ever go there? It's home. Or maybe you were trying to smash your own reflection in the windowpane? Somehow that makes you feel... scared. You don't know why. An ominous warning of bad things ahead. For good or ill, the deed is done. 11:11. It's *meaningful*. Oops. A bad feeling comes over you... Oops. A bad feeling comes over you... Also of note -- your unconscious racial profiling machine ruled out Messinian before. Despite all the *copporoonies* and *cobos*. That leaves Vespertine or Oranjese. Continue. Mute silence as always. THERE ARE ANCIENT MYSTERIES DOWN THERE, COBO... ASK ME LATER. A strange word... *treatment*. From here it looks as though the clown-faced man is screaming. The tendons of his jaw are torn apart, hyoid ripped from the force of the lieutenant's hands. As you say the words you find yourself peering from the corner of your eye... to where? To the West! As the words leave your mouth -- there it is again! That strange feeling, like there's something *in* there... His flesh is cold. Icy. All you will find here is pain. Yes. Agreed. You should never take your neck tie off. Ever. Red paint is peeling off it. Looks like blood, no? Compared to the intersection, in front of Video Revachol 24 -- it's nothing. Compared to that, everything is possible. It's not the locals he's worried about -- but an eleven year old girl. Now! Now you will *finally* get to know who you are! You, every morning, walking from Voyager Road to teach gym. She -- leaving for the academy with her spring coat on. The air filled with the smell of smoke and raspberries and incredible hope. An ocean full of hope. Heartbreak Welkin. Le Retour... It's the warmth of a winter night's fire. Maybe she could give you comfort and shelter? Some cigarettes and food money? Maybe she's your... Are you s-s-sure you want to do that? Remember what happened *last* time... There's something off about this woman. Tell her to show you the soles of her boots. Maybe she was at the hanging... somehow? What if... to truly love a boiadeiro is to float lifeless downstream? B-b-but what if you don't *like* what you find there? There'll be no going back from it... Why don't you ever listen to us. We tried to warn you that you wouldn't *like* what the mirror had to say... This is either an ominous or cool architectural choice -- hard to say. No. A strange feeling fills your gut and suddenly you *know* the gun is empty. Thinking about it makes you nauseous. No. An ominous feeling fills your gut and suddenly you *know* the gun is empty. Thinking about it makes you nauseous. In there she is alone, trapped in a world of blue and red lights. That gun is a joke compared to the actual greatest thing he lost. It's gotta be the phasmid this time. Look -- it moved! It's gotta be the phasmid this time. Look -- it moved! The name resounds like a bell in the air -- a dark gong. You get a bad feeling about it. Then why does all of this feel like some sad, strange dream? Yeah, you're certainly the type who might find fame *posthumously*. Who knows, you might even get famous for the *manner* of your death! Behind her the window has been boarded up. You sense the boards creaking, twisting for a second... and some kind of *doubt* in her tense shoulders. As you do, you hear and the echo of the Doomed Commercial Area. Its black halls and dusty machines. Then the feeling passes. These forces of future have chosen to depict something that reminds you of... you. A bad omen. Beware of this church. He *seems* sure, but you are left with the nagging doubt you might have overestimated the hard coreness of that jam... Could there have been a *right* way out of this garden of forking paths, you think? Something *mysterious* is going on here... ....as though you're supposed to be sharing some tremendous, evangelical secret... Who will be the innocence of hard-core anodic dance music? Oh god, you're going to be in this church forever. FOREVER. Who will be the innocence of hyper-hard-core anodic dance music? Something *mysterious* is going on here... Feels like you should reply with the very pinnacle of idiocy here, so that things get totally transcendent. But you haven't gotten there yet, so you don't know what to say. They live underground? These communists aren't men, they're *mole people*! No! They're still there. You can *feel* them back there. Oh, no. Tell us you didn't *really* kill him. No-no-no! This was supposed to take your mind *off* the other thing! When will *you* wake up? And what will you see when you do? It's better not to know, that's what the wind is telling you. Oh god, tell us you haven't done it *again*. Are you twice the killer now? This must be the *theory combat* the boiadeiro warned you about! En garde! But it is! It is! Their faces, blurred yet frozen as though in ambrotype. You were never *that young*, were you? A chance to establish contact with the future! What a beautiful, *terrible* thought... Is, is that *true*? Have you felt *estranged* from your own self recently? No, no. These are *terrible* colours. They're like... like... No-no-no. There's *something* here, you can feel it! That's not right at all. Thoughts don't exist in the brain, they float through the *air*! Your brain is but a fish swimming through them... Why are you getting hung up on mechanisms... Open your mind's aperture just a little wider! You're so close to true understanding! Stop, stop! Banish the thought. This isn't what you came for. No, this is right. Who doesn't long to believe in *miracles*? I-i-is there anybody th-th-there? A little rhyme jingling in your mind's attic... "Of the future, of the past/ Of all that is not made to last"... But... didn't the Wild Pines representative say that Revachol would *resolve* history? Wait-wait, she's an *El-something*, you just know it. You're all alone out there, wandering a blasted heath, calling out to the night, but there is no reply, except for the buzzing of invisible machines... No, no, no -- she's got it all backwards. It's reality that's *obscuring* what's real. You have never been closer to the dark truths of existence... S-s-s-she knows perfectly well where they are! They've got one for everybody, all coded and filed away in a vast labyrinth beneath Isherwood... A-a-afraid? What is she afraid of? No, you *know* this tone of voice. You've heard it before. She's about to deliver some bad news... Images of your body smashed against the pavement flood your mind -- this is *dangerous*. Meaning she's the voice of all those living souls! It's just like that woman in the electronic doorbell... the circuit ghost... You really don't have the faintest guess what her name could be. You were never very good at this sort of thing... Yes. Unquestionably, *irrevocably* alone... You *knew* there was something strange about this one! He's an astral projection, a bureaucratic phantasm! Suddenly this feels like a really, *really* bad idea. There's a word on the tip of your tongue. Colourless, odourless. It's... Be honest with him. Who *he* is and what they're fighting for? This is interesting. It feels like there's an entire history behind the word... but it doesn't really matter. You got it. You know what it *means*. Whatever it is, it was abandoned for *good* reason. Best to leave some stones unturned... Whatever this *true life* is, you feel it's the real centrepiece of this mythology. Just a moment. That voice isn't human, and it's not saying 'Nay!' -- It's saying 'N-n-n-neigh!' But you don't like that, you liar. You like this one, the softness of her core is dear to you... This is a good, dangerous line of questioning. You should prod him on! The sickest. That is perhaps *why* it should be researched. He means something para-natural. He must... He wants to keep it at a distance. He's afraid of what powers are contained therein... It's not easy to reach a harmonic resonance of sines without some adjustment. It's not easy to reach a harmonic resonance of sines without some adjustment. He can't hurt you. What more can he do that you haven't gone through already? Nature was not capable of more. You don't really know what it's for, but you get the feeling notes like these are *super* important -- you should keep it. A little *me*-time in the abyssopelagic zone... you can never return to it now. Only detective-work remains. Wakefulness and detection. Perhaps he's on his way to where you just came from -- into the primordial darkness? Dark cloud? That sounds unpleasantly familiar... 'Higher realms'? Of course -- it all makes sense... He is not going to become an entrepreneur. A feeling of tenderness washes over you -- a longing even, perhaps. And gentle tragedy. No storm will ever drown Revachol, the great solution to the riddle of history. It feels like you're peeking into someone's home residence. Inside it's private, cozy, warm. Dusty, too. Perhaps you truly *are* the one to deliver this woman from the doom... Yes, the venture continues. In other waters. Darker waters. Perfidy? Oh no, we're afraid the presence is VERY REAL. Yes, the venture continues. In other waters. Darker waters. Didn't... didn't that curtain just *move*?! Unbelievable darkness and ruin. Wow. Total psychic collapse between you two right now. She remembers. Good. A golden pendant hangs around the woman's neck, in the shape of what looks like a tiny fish head trapped in amber. *This economy* is a mysterious force, like cosmic weather. Mysterious and harsh. You've come this far -- you know how to end it. There is an entity *behind* the entity. Psychic arts? Sounds right down our alley. There *is* something mysterious about the curtains... be careful! We must be dealing with seriously malign forces here if there are *dozens* of wards. She's right -- those curtains give off some *eerie vibes*. Better not mess with it. You swallow, like you swallowed the last time. Whatever bitter emotion was swimming to the surface then -- and now -- subsides. Submerges. Sinks back into you. A tremendous loneliness comes over you. Everybody in the world is doing something without you. You're just as alone as the last time. Whatever kept you company in this world -- what kept you safe -- has left your side, never to return again. "Why are you doing this? Don't do this to me, please!" Remember? Who *was* that meant for? Beauty has abandoned you in this ugliness, honcho. And then some! You cannot even remember the *name* of beauty; what beauty was... But he *is*... you can feel it. Or maybe it's something else then! You're wrong there. Incompleteness is the essence of mystery. Maybe you should... What if the cockatoo is your *astral captain*? Or your *heraldic bird*? Maybe you should check that cockatoo book again... What if the cockatoo is your *heraldic bird*? Okay! Maybe it's something else then. Less talk, more feeling. Keep your eyes closed, soak in the closeness. See what the feeling entails. What if something horrible has happened? What if they're dead. That's the bad vibe you got before. The church looks old and weather-worn. There are no lights in the windows. You're 100% sure you got special Hobocop money for that tare. At least +100% extra tare money. If the numbers on the machine told you otherwise, it's a *lie*. It could be. She was strange. Yes, but they also make your soul quiver like jello. So deep. When was the last time you kissed? No, something's wrong here... are you sure she's talking to *you*? Time has come to face the Source. Fear not, for the forces of the universe are supporting you in this psychic quest. Is she pitying you? Good god, she's pitying you. No, it was something else... It was *eerie*. Who cares about the dead body? We might be dealing with a *malignant entity* here! Plaisance needs to hear about this. Perhaps if you combine your *psychic energies* you'll make sense of the situation. Don't let her become complacent! She still needs to ward *her soul* against the evil forces! Plaisance was right... There's an entity living in the chimney! You should ask her about the curse. No, it's the troubled colour of her energetic vibrations! The dice is black and filled with little silvery flakes, like snowfall. Could this be the malicious Entity? Perhaps it's wise to go along with this *masquerade* for now... If the Whirling is part of the same building then it's part of the Doomed Commercial Area. The darkness of this place is there too... Who cares about the dead body? Ask her about the curse already! Looks like this furnace has a face and it's a face of agony. You've awakened the entity! You feel the spirit of Ramout Karzai, ancient hero of Graad, pulsing through you. All that's left is to cover your face in war-paint. Don't rip the red one out -- you'll awaken the ghosts! It's all gone now. You never became a poet or an entroponaut. Sooner or later you will stumble upon a tool mighty enough. Then we will know what's in this mysterious ice cream maker. Why does it feel so familiar? See, see! This place is cursed! Hey, but you're still in a ghost house... What if someone heard this? What if they know you're here?! Is that what it is -- this feeling? You've found some common ground with this man. Even impressed him. The next time you look in the *mirror*, though. Remember those words... Imagine it. An explosion. Of *stars*. Good bye world of men, money and machines... *Did* you? You would have done better if you'd just dial the Dolores Dei down a bit. Steer clear of this one. There's something terrible about this one. Please. Relax. You really navigated some treacherous waters here. Well done. You would have done better if you'd just left Dolores Dei for the end. Dial the Dolores Dei down *a bit*. Just steer clear of this one, okay. There's something terrible about this one. Holy shit! A disembodied voice! Have cursed void-phantasms come to haunt us for misdeeds done in the past? Holy fuck! It's coming to get us! Was that... acceptance? It feels so *normal*. Nourishing even. Yeah. *Sad* rock and roll. Tune it to Sad FM. Very cool. Now tune it to Sad FM. You know you want to. Once you get in, that's it -- one pull of the starter handle and you're off into the bay. A strange trepidation comes over you: are you sure you want to go *now*? He's right. You could smell it, that something missing, even under the overpowering odour of the corpse. Something ominous. And your chest swells with pride -- look! It's made right here in Revachol, by Saint-Batiste, a proud Revacholian pharmaceutical company with great *traditions*! Yellow Man? Feels significant somehow, him saying that. You should ask him about it, later... Yellow Man? Feels significant somehow, him saying that. You should ask him about it, later... Man, it's lonely doing this alone. The wind seems to howl in a strange manner... Man, it's lonely doing this alone. The wind seems to howl in a strange manner... Man, it's lonely doing this alone. The wind seems to howl in a strange manner... Have mercy on yourself. Take the door. No. No. It's just a fear. Even if... who cares. No one wants you anyway. OH GOD! WATCH OUT! He's not gonna make it. It must be cold and lonely down there, in the icy water. A massive pit opens up in your stomach and the most terrible feeling comes over you. A massive pit opens up in your stomach and the most terrible feeling comes over you. Forty-one, Precinct 41. A massive pit opens up in your stomach and the most terrible feeling comes over you. There is also a *fourth* thing you've lost. Just like how the crazy daredevil piloting that vehicle must have accelerated into the sea! Suddenly you're reminded of the lieutenant's Kineema and the weird feeling about the fish and seaweed you had... You get a sudden sinking feeling. Stomach acid comes up as you look at the motor carriage in the deep, dark, cold water. You immediately feel *drawn* to the colour. Blue is for mystery. Dust rises before you like mist. A tomb? Haunted by regal spirits from distant ages... We'll see. You *knew* there was something strange about this one! He's an astral projection, a phantasm! It's not too late, no one's going to blame you for backing out. You don't have to do this. Just get out. Soon. The time will come soon. Have patience, brave one. Loneliness. Oh no. You've made *el bigo mistako*. He's going to go on forever! Better not touch it. Who knows what evils it may hide. Life is garbage. Dora. The name feels like a *gift*. A gift that was meant for you -- to make it possible to live. Who cares. Run. Go. Don't think about this. Do police work, it's all there is. He doesn't have a home. His home is under a boat. You get a sinking feeling. It makes you look if Lieutenant Kitsuragi overheard you. To your relief, he did not. This feels wrong. Should you be doing this? He doesn't have a home. Not anymore. It's *really* time to stop this now. This Mother of Silence sounds like a serious player. You might want to be careful, until you find out what you're dealing with. That is true. But what comes after death? But does it have anything to do with necroplasmic life forms? 'Ghosts' in everyday parlance. Just a moment. That voice isn't human, and it's not saying 'Nay!' -- It's saying 'N-n-n-neigh!' Whatever it is, it was abandoned for *good* reason. Best to leave some stones unturned... The floorboards. The glass. The streets and the people. Nothing will remain. You *have* an explanation for all this. Somewhere deep in you -- you just don't have the pieces yet. Drinking coffee and smoking. With a friend. Silence is silence? You're sure there's more to it... And then there is you. And what happened to *your* mind. Are you not a saeraff in worship too? Suddenly your palms are sweaty. The church seems cold and large, somehow... Wait, no! That's dangerous, she shouldn't do it! You have an explanation for all this. Somewhere deep in you -- you *know*. The person you *were* knows. Ghosts, speak to me! It may work, you think, but why do you feel like there may be a terrible cost? Strange things may flourish in the dark... This is the door, you already know it's the right door. This is going to be *so hard*. So fast as to make it seem like the weather turns at her command. The Sun does little for the dead, and those hopelessly lost in their own minds. Something bad. Someone's night thoughts. A last resort. A bad idea. Connections to other worlds. Worlds past the Insulindian, unknown to you. You only know you've never been there. In the northeast a dust mite stands on the north coast of Caillou. In a bookstore. It's you. You feel you're *just* west of Coal City. Somewhere above Jamrock and close to Coal City. She's laughing at him. Belittling him. After all this, you still haven't found the answer to the one question that matters: Who *is* Dick Mullen? Who are you going to play board games with? Do you have friends or family? You feel like you should get this one. Definitely. It's *important* somehow. There is something personal inside... It was just trying to help.... Seems you'll never learn the answer to that question. He will never play pétanque again. Host almighty, he's a total bummer now! But you feel the dried flower in your hand somehow still *does* matter. Although not to this sad old man. Interesting... you still have to find it, however. Something in you wants to immediately *forget* about this. As if there was a reason you threw them away. Something in you wants to immediately *forget* about this. As if there was a reason you threw them away. Interesting... you still have to find a copy though. Before you can blast it. No, there's more to this. You get this strange *feeling*. Forget about that. What's with this Du Bois stuff? You're getting some seriously bad vibes from that name... Oh god, why didn't you think of this before -- COPS HAVE GUNS! Where's yours?! You get a sinking feeling... You do realize he might be just a figment of your imagination, right? You can feel tension on the other side. Her gloves -- you get the feeling that you need them. You have a dead body to deal with, after all. Odd... In the West is the miracle... Psst! Her gloves -- they'll help you with the autopsy. That's because you know where this leads to. Usual is boring. We don't do that. Below the pathetics -- terror. Do not look into its blue heart. No, no, no, no... Does it? It feels like a *lot*. Or maybe even more than a lot. It feels like *too much*. Probably for the best. Because HDB feels like *bad news* from yesteryear. Like shit, honcho. Yeah, we're staying out of this business for now. HDB is *bad news* from yesteryear. It's shit, honcho. Still feels like there's *something* missing from that... Don't worry. One day. The blue heart. Don't look into it. Hmm... it's as if there is an automatic *self-defence* structure in your hand, keeping you from mind-fucking yourself with letters from past lovers. You can't shake the feeling that there are more secrets concealed in the flesh before you. You're on the right track. The ululations of the limbic system have ended. All is quiet. Who are all those creatures? Fantasies of a tortured, feverish mind? Marked by the devil itself! Have you stirred the ghost of the Doomed Commercial Area from its rest? Could this be its dismembered heart, beginning to flutter? ...is what you *want* to say. But it isn't that easy, is it? The word *it* feels strange. Such a beautiful boat deserves a proper name... Down a deep, black well. You'll meet her soon enough, you feel. Five days. Not more. Maybe sooner. Where is he now? After life, death. After death, life again. After the isola, the pale. After the pale, isola again. Here comes the dark. The plug will be pulled... now. ...is what you're about to say when a cold streak runs through your heart. Once said, there's no going back, Harry. There was a sting in your heart at the mention... before. When she said its name. You think we should... turn him off and back on again? This is one thought you *need* to complete. Where are you? The aim is to gain a deeper understanding. *Off we go...* you see the hanged man's mouth open. As if it's self-explanatory, beyond patriotism. A fact. Dark orange flames reflect in her green eyes. An oil fire on the ocean. That poor woman must have stories to tell like you wouldn't imagine... The camera of her mind glides over the surface of the water. The water, the light... It's as though you're seeing it for the *first* time. She's over-radiated. And then some. Vast, lukewarm and unknowable. Flowing in and out of sight. Suddenly you're conscious of yourself standing there, on... whatever this all is. Your arms hang down by your sides. As your gaze instinctively turns north, a small black pit opens up in your stomach. Then *you* happened. Your youth in the Thirties. Something tells you her life and yours are not that similar. Maybe it's because she has a boat and you have... that necktie? A pair of pants? She narrows her eyes -- turning her gaze to the future out of professional habit... Something tells you her life and yours are not that similar. No. How about you keep sticking around? Look around -- find the company representative, see what they have to say? Maybe the company will help? Then get back to this. Another apocalyptic actor in town? Frankly it's a bit terrifying. He avoided looking her straight in the eye -- you would've too. Something is seriously wrong with you. Who knows why we do the things we do. Somehow bouncing those ideas off the man with sunglasses felt calming. Like you've done it before. He is secretly admiring your sea of muscles. Everyone is. You have awakened the *hunger*. There is no turning back now, better invest in a good cook book and stock up on salt. Feels like you should've used vinegar too... The men are talking, but you swear you hear those black limbs tap on the window as the wind blows outside. It wasn't time yet. You have to know of the girl... Return when you know more. Keep at it. There must be a reason you've looked out this window so many times. You know which window has *not* been recently replaced? You get the feeling this room would tell you something crucial if you only knew how to listen... Below... in the Union box... was there something behind the window? In the hawthorn branches, brushing against the glass. It's not a ghost story. It's a curse -- and Garte ought be made knowledgeable so he can perform counter-spells. But then it went bankrupt... your skin crawls from making the connection! As she says so you feel the young woman looking at you... and get a *feeling* you can't quite put your finger on. A suspicion? Your imagination starts whirring, whether you want it to or not. As he says so you feel the young woman looking at you... and get a *feeling* you can't quite put your finger on. A suspicion? She meant she sees him in her dreams. The last missing pieces of a puzzle of flesh. So this is what it feels like to be *interviewed*... The tape feels ominous... Upon it, the dead speak. Respect the tape! She's already in prison here. For what happened. And she is prepared to never leave. Even after his death. Still, the story influenced her choice of where to run. It must have some hidden layers... Still, you felt it was important enough to make a mental note. That means *something*. You didn't pay attention to any of the other cigarette butts on the coast. A bloodstained killer. Plus one. Ruby. But they seemed so mysterious. The return to her side. Fresh blood. The return to her side. What if the words are not directed at the people of Martinaise, or even the Coalition aerostatics above the city -- they're meant for something above even those... Maybe there's some kind of reason why they're laughing? An interesting reason somehow tied to the case! Voices from another self? Voices from *a deeper self*? Voices from... *early schizophrenia*? You hear some kind of limb fidget, producing an imperceptible tick... We are way out now... Way out in the West. W-w-w-wait. Haven't you heard this before? N-n-n-no. This isn't right... Also -- what if the bad thing happens again? The mattress is soggy, but that linen feels more inviting than the pain and exhaustion. It's not too cold here... You feel an ominous tingling in your fingertips as they browse the pages... Trepidation. A tingling feeling in your stomach... He was like a cleric, a shepherd. You smell... For all time. Be afraid. You smell wrong. Don't say it! Are you sure? This may be the only chance you get to touch it... Apricot blossoms. White blossoms erupting. A sensation, like cold hands on your face. DETECTIVE This is everything I always warned you about. Then it's you. *You* will make her lungs glow. Your pain is NOT meaningless. We all told you. *Everyone* warned you. A completely different world. Hidden, distant, kept safe from you. Somehow you managed to dodge it all... The church, the window *and* the bad book in the store. On the shelf. You made it. Across the black sea unharmed... A dark feeling. This is going wrong. Let go of the clutch. Motor carriage, motor carriage... Something bad with a motor carriage.... A dark lump rises in your throat. You probably don't *want* to continue on this road. Oh, *requests a description*, huh? We'll *give* him one. Describe the Blaasma Gun. Check your pockets! Check your... holy fuck, you really don't know where it is, do you?! This is *your* cloak. You can feel it. Doesn't look too incriminating -- but still feels like a *find*. A pity. The mystery of *you* will have to remain a mystery for the time being. The giant neon sign reading "HARRY DU BOIS" hanging from the Kvalsund crane can be seen all the way to Jamrock. You feel like a *Du Bois*, but you don't feel like a *Harry*. Strange. That's what the hanged corpse called you -- Harry. Do *not* trust him. For all you know, it might be *his* name by which he is addressing you. You need confirmation. It did not come as a surprise to him. He might actually not be bullshitting. Calls herself *the Pigs?* That sounds bad. She will be there. From 22.00 till 02.00. There it is again -- *the pigs*, like Roy said. Not good at all. The stars aligned into a cosmic frown here. He has your fate decided. Bide your time, however, and let the stars continue their course -- and that frown shall turn into a smile. Only if you play along... Don't be fooled. The bad times have already begun. A lot can happen in four months. Especially in winter. The winters are never easy on you, of that you are sure. Don't be fooled. The bad times have already begun. The bore's the size of your eye. I can almost see the stars. Countless lines separate life and death. What terminal boundary was crossed here? Men like Titus don't murder over nothing. Ask him again. There's a *spooky* building West of this. Take a flashlight with you, search the basement. There are secrets -- magisterial, ancient secrets that may assist you. Weird... how? You're wearing the pinball maker's coat. And a hole in his heart. That first. There's a *spooky* building West of this. Take a flashlight with you, search the basement. There are secrets -- magisterial, ancient secrets that may assist you. It feels like you'll get to know -- soon enough. It was just trying to help.... Seems you'll never learn the answer to that question. You should implicate *yourself*. Throw yourself onto the embrasure, chest first! She is perturbed by your not knowing what year it is -- but not by your mention of the apocalypse. It *must* be the end times. There's more to his animosity toward the Union Boss. There's a growing sense of dread: the sound is coming from inside you but also surrounding you. It feels as though someone is standing just outside your range of vision and watching you, doing this to you... It's been through a whole *transformation*. There are so many insights to share -- it just needs a medium. Wouldn't the wake-walkers pay to hear the somniloquy of the spirit light? She's going to *love* it. Try to find something pretty and cool here. Then use it to win her back! He seems to have his own take on the conflict played out in perpetuity by these toys. Might be interesting to find out what it is... Like at a beach party. With sand and sun and seagulls dancing on the breeze. This is you. Gold and orange. A sunset suite. Very, *very* unique energies indeed. Geomagnetic ley lines, one might even say. You're not imagining it. Photon emissions? What is he talking about? The words *daredevil driver* sound ominous to you. Her? Hopelessly alone behind the unbreakable walls he spent a lifetime erecting. No one will ever know him. How do you know it already hasn't? Actually, it's called *extraphysics* and you don't need to be a magus to access it. Father Jairzinho? Sounds like some kind of mystic. Or a magician. The room feels soporific in its silence, dust particles twirling around in the air... Finally -- a chance to connect with the *divine*. Wirral. A guy so engrossed with various races *has to* play pen-and-paper role-playing games. The further out, the better. What if *you* only appear as a large singular body, are actually a congregation of tiny organisms working in unison? You're not going to like it. She is perturbed by your not knowing what year it is -- but not by your mention of the apocalypse. It *must* be the end times. Rising, unfolding from the reeds on a hot summer's day... like a benevolent god. Do it. Who knows what cryptozoological mysteries will be uncovered? This will *surely* lead to a cryptozoological mystery with that *extremely rare insect*... You've come so far. You can't leave those locusts there, waiting on the ghost reed with no one to witness when it appears... You sense that she won't judge you, no matter what you say. Oh yeah. Here comes the *interesting*. Where did you go? Don't go... Do it. Find him. This will *surely* lead to a mystery with that *extremely rare insect*... Of course. Do it. Who knows what mysteries await? Do it. Find her husband. This will *surely* lead to a cryptozoological mystery with that *extremely rare insect*... Very strange... you get the sense she wouldn't have let you do this even if you did volunteer. Why? A dream? This must be where the *Entity* lives... A diagram for summoning some time-forgotten being? The symbols seem very esoteric. He's going to leave you alone again. That's sad. It's as if they're *real* wizards, able to resurrect dead real estate and breathe life into bank accounts. But this reeks of sadness! An eerie feeling rises in your chest... Cool. They are going to hate you. A laughing skull. Death hilarious. This is gonna be baaaad... It's one of those ink-blot tests. An invitation to connect with the *divine*. Beside his orderly handwriting, the bullet looks especially sad. Like a tiny, shrivelled head of cauliflower. Something tells you that won't be any time soon. This'll have to be one of those epic tasks that's open for a while... Man, it's lonely doing this alone. The wind seems to howl in a strange manner... Perhaps you should break into apartments more often? Yes. It *is* quite likely that we will re-emerge on the M-Plain. Brace for psychokinetic impact. (Or the roof.) You feel nice and lonely. And so, so tired. Is that an accusatory glance he gave you? No... no, he's cool. This means something to him. To know that name. Like naming a case. It's important. According to Klaasje, Lely said his real name wasn't really *his* -- perhaps that's because he was fostered? She watches by, motionless. A trusted friend left behind... The white noise turns into a wall of mist and grey mould, bubbling, sweeping over the city... it tears up buildings and raises sidewalks into the sky. It's Revachol -- at the end of the world. There was a longing in her for some sort of denouement, but it's unlikely that it was this... turning prematurely grey while being escorted from interrogation room to interrogation room... It was dark in the shack. The waves outside had calmed down. She looked at the loaded gun, then she cracked the barrel open and took the bullet out. Not today. No, no, it can't be that. You're not Harry Du Bois. Forget you heard any of this. There's no time to deal with this now. There's something in the wind. Sometimes the only way to go forward is to fail first. As if said by someone else. Someone outside you. Around you. Not you. A prayer of sorts? To Revachol. ASTRAL PROJECTION! Be *open-minded* about this. Things played out just as she had feared. Except *you* didn't shoot her. Were you *supposed* to find her, even apart from the investigation, then? On M's request? No, you wouldn't do something like this. This must be a mistake. There's something else in there. There has to be. But -- it's like reaching your hand into muddy water, fishing around, and coming up with nothing... Only *curiosity* could account for stepping over that threshold. Maybe there's treasure in there? A white alligator? A fountain of quicksilver? Besides, if you never open it, you're never gonna find out, what's *behind* the door. You feel eyes on you, watching you from the windows overlooking the yard. Even the darkness is holding it's breath inside the apartment. It's an ode to self expression. I-i-is there anybody th-th-there? It's just like that woman in the electronic doorbell... the circuit ghost... You're all alone out there, wandering a blasted heath, calling out to the night, but there is no reply, except for the buzzing of invisible machines... Images of your body smashed against the pavement flood your mind -- this is *dangerous*. That much is true. Why does this situation feel so familiar? Do you have a history of propositioning inanimate objects? Ten seconds -- borders dissipate. Twenty seconds -- loss of self. Thirty seconds -- everything dissimilates into raw unreality. So close to envisioning what's beyond. Just needs a little push over the edge... The *blaasma gun* that shoots periwinkle blue high energy plasma! This is your chance... Something's rattling within you. It feels like the first penny dropped into a piggy bank. He's so close to envisioning what's beyond. Just needs a little push over the edge... It looks almost ethereal -- is it even real? As if under a microscope. In the darkness, you sense her eyes on you, inspecting you with their multicoloured glass. As if you're a bug under a microscope. Your heart knows. But it does not want to say, not yet. Let these things be unknown for now. Draped in ancient sadness. Are you sure you want to remember this bit of historic trivia? Standing under her long slender form like this, dwarfed... Only a strange little sadness remains. Terrifying. It's a simple word. She was *bad* for humanity and you shouldn't have started thinking about her! This is exactly what you need! This is just mundane garbage. What's even para-natural about this? A strange feeling... Every now and then, something feels off about the way she speaks. She doesn't change tone, but you feel as though there's more about her than she lets on. This is the first time you've heard her laugh. You wish you'd been there. A strange feeling... like before, when you caught her lying better than she should have. Every now and then something feels off about the way she speaks. She doesn't exactly change tone, but you feel as though there's more about her than she lets on. You see clear, beautiful, violent flashes of light. Light cutting through a smoke-filled darkness. That is what the future will look like -- if it ever comes. This machinery is of the deeply mystical variety. The implications of this are... too numerous to consider. Proceed with caution. Learn all you can before entering that dark building. Like a Tequila Sunset. The 9mm Villiers feels surprisingly light in your hand. Almost toy-like. You imagine death, sorrow and the dramatic re-imagining of Andre's face burst out of its muzzle, and it feels almost preposterous... He looks almost as old as you. He looks almost as old as you. You feel as if turning on the hyper-drive will be a point of no return. Feels almost melancholy... Are you sure you have the entire posse along for this? So *this* is what power feels like. Do you like it? He looks almost as old as you. SALVATION! It was a retaliation for your earlier assault... the trees... are they plotting something? It's like you see your own face reflected back at you in the vanishing geometry -- a strange, alien image that's supposed to be you. For some reason this *does* strike you as the most plausible theory of them all. Please, don't open that door. Good, these people know your *true* name. Looks like it has preceded you, Mr. Sunset. More on that later. ...is what you almost say, but the words choke in your throat. Do you really want to miss out on all this good stuff? Perhaps it's *significant*. Suddenly you feel sad, looking at this man and his bottle... somehow he looks *ancient*, these thoughts having chased him for years. Don't turn around, don't turn around! The throttle is jammed and the brakeman's nowhere to be seen! There's no getting off this ride! Tequila... Tequila Sunset... Something ominous there. Now, now detective... always the sceptic. In a pyramid? Now that *would* be something... This is an omen, a sign from above -- that you need to stop drinking. What if all of this is staged? He could have seen something that night in the yard... The view from the lookout is beautiful... This is where he came out of himself. Drop by drop when he was unconscious. It took three, maybe four minutes. True. It feels... disrespectful. This is an omen, a sign from above -- don't start drinking again. Or what if you are...? He was *just* about to head home. The first step back home proved to be his last. Under your thrumming eyelids, you see a dizzying array of colours. You won't get off this carousel quite so easily. Finally, something to calm the angry spirits that have been plaguing you. Are you s-s-sure about that? Something about her gives you a *bad* feeling. What kind of *secret* is she hiding? You *are* the murderer, after all... Have you gone over everyone? Is anybody missing? "I love you"? Yes, yes. They're out there waiting for you, just over the next rise, up on Marvel Hill! They *would* do that in Graad. What treasures wait in store for you? You see a flash of teeth -- a young woman smiling at you, near some railway overpass in your ruined past. She is gorgeous. And she is *yours*. His glasses turn golden as the fire reflects off the lenses. You feel this man is your brother. His glasses turn golden as the fire reflects off the lenses. Once again, you are filled with the certainty: this man is your brother. This is a man with a lot of past, but little present. And almost no future. Flashes of bloody and terrible scenes of war. Men dying, horses shrieking, blood sinking into sand and snow and asphalt and fertile black earth... Feels as though you should do more honourable things. As if there's some kind of a... secret reward. If you just commit enough honourable acts. Yes. This troubadour has it. You can *feel* it. He's not gonna get over it. Yes. People have called you that before. You didn't care. Precisely, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. It's Martinaise. Peer into a discarded coffee cup! But even just holding the tape makes you feel a little sad... But... but... what if you never find out how *your* story ends? Feels very, very familiar. Harry. Please. You were supposed to discard it. Feels so, so familiar. Drawn by regret. Stop, before you *hurt* yourself with the Tutti Frutti wrapper. Throw it away, please. Another identity misplaced... There must be some cosmic conspiracy afoot! This isn't funny... you have a bad feeling about this one. Strangely... like a puppet on a string. There's something off, you feel it. This was the right question. You just... But still, somehow you *knew* it was a communist. Something unpleasant twitches in your stomach. You lost it... You stare at them too. In your mind, Her Innocence Dei still turns to leave, airport bag in hand, silks flowing in her wake... You feel like you're forgetting something... never mind. It's not important. Push on! You have a feeling there was more here, but what? This has to be one of the mysteries you don't get to solve... This has to be one of the mysteries you never got to solve... The words feel heavy, like they're coming from the bottom of you. You've said them half a thousand times... Something is happening. Stop. ... is what you want to say. You can barely get to 'you're under...' when you suddenly get weary... There's *much* more. Remember what it said, when it spoke. There is nothing. Only the reeds for him. The reeds and devastation. Beckoning you to come to it. Now that you say them, the words feel like tin, heavy, they're coming from the bottom of you. You've said them half a thousand times... Something is happening. Stop. Stop. Something is happening. Way, *way* more. It's *way* more than that. That's it. The verdict. It's *definitely* your style to solve *side-shit*. Win *who* back, you don't even know her name! No. It's not true. It was there. It was real. You remember every detail of its sounds, its movements, its presence... This jacket reeks of loss and failure. It could be the one that the idiot in the colourful tracksuit was looking for... A glorious sight: your body, tired from the vastness of the visions that haunt it, burning up in a flame fed by your own living breath. But you're not a regular animal. You're not even a regular cop. You see -- and hear! -- beyond the veil. The last thought in your head before waking is: maybe you shouldn't have seen that stained glass window? In the church.... The last thought in your head before waking is: you need to go to the church... You hear that? The lieutenant's staying! Brotherhood conquers all! Great. This is great shit. You need more. He sees in the dread moose something perversely beautiful and just. Something tells you this is going to be a rough ride. So it wasn't the phasmid... a wave of disappointment washes over you. Not like he thinks, but you can feel it. Somehow this *will* change things. Hard to see, but easy to feel. Somehow this *will* change things. Shit! The girl... the girl upstairs?! That can't be her. She knows you drank so hard you forgot you were a cop... *Kisses... kisses... kisses...* Shit! The girl... the girl upstairs?! That can't be her! Remember what you said to her? You told you wanna have... Suddenly you feel like you don't want to hear about video rentals anymore. You don't want to hear about *any of it*. It was all shit. It's over. That much is true. His heart *truly* is in it. Though you wouldn't think so by looking at him. It is but one of the many strange *optic-atmospheric* phenomenon on this wondrous archipelago. You're sure you once saw sundogs -- in your youth. And blue flares.... This story she will tell only before she *leaves* Martinaise. At the very end of her stay. It's because of all the money. Even the sky gets an aura of glistening lucre. This crane was built with a purpose which has now been fulfilled -- to move *this* container. ... is what you're thinking. But you don't want to party down. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where the freckles only make you sad. ... is what you're thinking. But you don't want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where the freckles only make you sad. And more than that: you're sad. There's an absence inside of you, something missing that may have been freckled too. You're right. There's an absence inside of you, something missing that may have been freckled too. And dangerous. Dangerous too. This isn't gonna work without the lieutenant here. What if you *do* find a way in and it's a *trap*? Kitsuragi needs to be here, covering you. This isn't gonna work without the lieutenant here. What if you *do* find a way in and it's a *trap*? Kitsuragi needs to be here, covering you. Let's call it an apparition from the past. Let's call it an apparition from the past. Feels like you've failed the biggest shit-test of them all... Some sadness comes crashing over you like a bad dream. Something sad and small wakes up in you... what is it trying to say? The mirage looks both sad and glorious in the mist, like an insect trapped in glass. It killed himself to *spite* you. Life has left it, unlikely to ever return. Lucky goats. The fog looks soft and inviting. The last one. Help him surface the pain, release the pressure. Be a friend. Help him surface the pain, release the pressure. Be a friend. SUGGESTION Help him surface the pain, release the pressure. Be a friend. SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS Anything to not face the hanged disco man yet... Do it -- *if you want to die*, the stabbing pain in your chest is telling you. You're hanging by a thread here... Whoah! Something wants to come out of you -- a bit of vomit? Thankfully you keep it down, because your body does not control you. She's right. Something wants to come out -- through your mouth. But you can keep it down because your body does not control you. I'm not squishy and permeable. I'm bark, sap and steel. Cast me in ceramic shell, but only for *ritual purposes*. It would adorn me well... bring me to attention. He is growing truly tired of it, it's not merely moodiness. His tolerance limit is near. It's more likely he can handle the smell. Unlike you. Phew! All that nodding was rough on the old neck. Close to feeling that twinge... Whew, got off really lucky... that could have resulted in a world of hurt. The nodding's reaching critical mass! You can't take this much longer, captain! Your neck couldn't withstand all this effort... it's too much! No. She reached the end of her elasticity about two months ago -- from here on out, every chip and knick and blow stays in there somewhere. Why not? You're a powerhouse. Indeed. You don't strike yourself like a powerhouse at all. Actually, yeah... How? You have mediocre lungs. No. You can do it. You still have plenty of juice in you before you drop. More cardio? Let's *do* this. He takes the dangers and discomforts that come with his work for granted, but just imagine the unforgiving desert heat he's endured, the wetlands filled with venomous reptiles he has crossed... His spirit may be willing, but his body might be too old to endure the rigours of the coast. It's a long *healthy* trek back to the village. He's so exhausted following recent events, he doesn't even have the energy to really get on your case. This was mostly about the fucking *cardio*. Massive cardio here. You'll live 'til 90! *Or* you'll get a heart attack from running. Damage. Teeming with opportunistic micro-organisms, letting out a foul-smelling diamine compound. Your eyes turn watery... The bloating *has* gone down since you woke up that morning... The *incredible* stamina output... The raw, robust stamina output... Watch out or she'll faint. A correct appraisal, you're quite shabby. The elements are rough around here. I don't know about this... A sudden vibration passes through your small intestine. Like a buzzer. That's not a healthy look. Muscles get bigger, heart grows weaker. You also *feel* old: tired, hardly able to catch your breath, your joints aching constantly. As your mind works, the beat recedes from your ears. You hear your own blood pulsing through your head, nourishing your thoughts with oxygen. The rhythm is familiar... Wait, they want you to run all the way back to Martinaise with that leg of yours, just to get some 'tape'? Ouch. Uh oh. Organisation hasn't exactly been your strong suit, historically speaking... Have you engaged the shit compressor? This task won't permit any looseness on your part, mentally or physically... Take a deep breath. Best to go one piece at a time. You only said what everyone else was thinking. Look around -- do you see any women here? You've survived things these kids can't even imagine. They've got nothing on you. There might be a little bile gathering at the back of your throat, but it's just a taste. The source of this issue is higher up the wire... A shameful way to treat a former king, even one as underwhelming as Frissel. Sounds like their bodies just haven't been *crushed* enough yet. Maybe if you're some kind of binoclard. *You* on the other hand, are a gut-thinker, through and through. Eight hours, huh? Seems doable. Your machinery could go the distance if called upon... Eight hours? There's no way. Your equipment would be mashed to jelly. You know your people's history. You don't need some *foreign wöman* in a fancy airship to tell you what's what. He seems ill-equipped for wherever he’s going. A king should not go about unarmed. You could force a coin *inside* you? Any hole will do. Not many more definitive tests of a man's mettle than the fortune yawn. (Your pecs dance.) No more sleep it is. A frazzled ride through eternity without pause. Hissing pistons pushed to the extreme. Nothing wrong with raw ambition. No, you should own up to it, claim it as *yours*. Forget about the haters. Nothing wrong with raw ambition. Nothing to see here but disrespect. The old figure will outlive this pathetic lick of paint. The past always endures. Nothing wrong with raw ambition. No, you should own up to it, claim it as *yours*. Forget about the haters. No, you should own up to it, claim it as *yours*. Forget about the haters. No, you should own up to it, claim it as *yours*. Forget about the haters. Nothing wrong with raw ambition. No, you should own up to it, claim it as *yours*. Forget about the haters. Nothing wrong with raw ambition. He doesn't have the stamina to deliver mail on these tough streets. But *you* do. Maybe if this cop thing doesn't work out... Things are not as bad as they look. Sure, you have high blood pressure from metabolizing heroic quantities of ethanol. But you are robustly built. You will survive. Merely standing up makes you sweat profusely. Your breathing is erratic. Your own heartbeat in your ears grows frantic and you feel your blood pressure rise. It'll take a few moments for him to recover. You hear your heart pumping, fast and irregular. Your joints ache and you feel old... but still alive, somehow. Fuck sleep. Despite the headache -- and the queasiness -- you feel like you've got at least a ten kilometre run in you. Duty, medals, honour, chain of command -- I like this guy. He's not a pansy. I don't like pansies. It's his heart. Should have just eaten the damn thing. This man seems to be experiencing a mild to medium level of congestive heart problems, either due to narrowing of the arteries or high blood pressure. Before you say anything, ask yourself. Is the woman really able to *withstand* the truth? Maybe you were wrong. She's endured for at least four decades in this world. This woman's not healthy enough to withstand this level of stress. Not that he has to worry about getting old yet -- he's sparkling with youth, a radiant demi-god. This jacket is the apex of human evolution -- the moment at which man became weatherproof. Could it be psychological? Because your physical health is fine. This will keep you nice and warm out there. Good choice, if a bit goofy looking... A memory from another life -- when you were young and fit. Even your body has failed you. It's a miracle you didn't injure yourself. Are you sure you don't *already* have lung cancer? You've given him a panic attack. He's ill-equipped to deal with it. You've given him a minor panic attack. He needs to deal with it. You've given him a panic attack. He's ill-equipped to deal with it. You can do it. It'll be worth it. There's something here. You feel the ligament move on your left shoulder. And a small, warm drip of blood. It's nothing. Walks are fucking *great* cardio. Very stable fat-burner. Aerobic exercise. He's too banged up himself -- to talk torque with you. Thank you for the compliment. We could manage it even in wooden clogs. There are uncanny running-reservoirs in this body -- god knows why... There is a *slight* physical revulsion in him while saying that, but he's worked through it in the intervening years. I'm satisfied. Are you satisfied? Because I am. Deep satisfying rumble runs through your small intestine. It feels affirming. This is it. This will protect your mortal shell. Don it and live. Yum. Did someone say topping pie? Your *gut feeling* tells you it'd be interesting. Garbage. You're a *true* patriot and you know how it's said. The Suresne way. The *fine* way. With an elegant shhh... Is there anything -- *anything* -- we could use to protect this frail body? That gun will tear us to pieces. You're thirsty. Reach for the glass of water by the bed. The world is still there. Sleep some more... You're bleeding like a pig, but the bullet *seems* to have gone right through you. Don't go into shock and you might make it. God, you're so frail. Too frail to think further, time is running out... You feel like you're about to faint and fall off the swing. Your hands get clammy and the air tastes sour to breathe. Rust, moss, and sea life have already claimed it for themselves and initiated a slow decomposition process. Something about his notion gives you strength. Makes you realize this isn't the end of the road yet. You feel like you're about to faint and fall off the swing. Your hands get clammy and the air tastes sour to breathe. She can't take much more. Her stomach is churning. Soon she will have to go to the bathroom and scream. She can't take much more. Her stomach is churning. Soon she will have to go to the bathroom and scream. A coronary artery bypass graft? Take out his liver and replace it with a new one? Somehow undo 20 years of neurological damage from stimulants... He does not sound well at all. He's exaggerating. It bites, but only a little. The handset starts slipping from your sweaty palm... your breathing is heavy. His own *heart*. This is bad, you feel your right hand on the handset cramping up with pain... Death *is* scary. You can't just start over again. Or can you? They're bloodshot. She really hasn't been getting much sleep lately, has she? Furthermore -- they have NO IDEA how hard it is to simply remove a body from a tree. Suddenly you realize how hungry you are. The last time you ate must have been... god knows when. Yet he's unperturbed. Holding his own. You've just got to grin and bear it. Like a champ. A champ with a rod up his ass! No! No! Hold on. Not you. You are an *eternal machine*. Soon you'll be looking for clues in a pile of sludge and bones. *Physically* he should be fine. Or at least no worse than usual... We're pulling the plug on this. Nothing else to be done. Good luck, everyone. Almost gave you a heart attack, that one... And something more. Something deeper rooted, like a sickness. An acidic smile on her lips. It's getting worse every year. Your ailing constitution, sweaty forehead, the beads there and your heavy breathing. This is gonna take *the hard* stuff too. Use as much as you can. Rotten Human Meat-Ceramic Boot Soup? Nope, you really shouldn't. He will. He has it in him. Ending him. Whoah. After so much drinking *and* drugs -- how did they manage it? Air moves in your windpipe. Your heart beats. You're a detective -- get back to detecting. She must be very cold. And exhausted of this life. Hold up. Don't go it alone -- it's a marathon, and you'll need support. Get Kim before you go any further. I think she's just tired. She doesn't know what you meant by that -- and can you blame her? No love for Möther Oranje? Wasn't he a *söldier*? She's not lying now. She really is very tired. Her metabolism is failing her, the afterglow of whatever narcotics she's been taking is wearing off. Fragile, unshielded, her voice is thin and tired. He looks like he's cold out here at the tip of the coast. The jacket is warm, but not for this weather. The wind picks up. Fine sea foam lashes your face. It feels like needles. You can take it -- just raise your collar, detective. Through tears and blood and stitches tearing it *should* be possible. His smoking, his hunched back... you have it worse, but he took a real beating. That cigarette has *medicinal* purposes. With considerable pain and the stitches tearing every now and then -- you should be able to do it. Through tears and blood and stitches tearing it *should* be possible. From time to time... Say what you will, but this kid's *hard shit*. He might actually make a good cop one day. With considerable pain, and a stitch tearing every now and then, you should be able to do it. A mediocre athlete would pant from dragging around his body on a busted crutch -- but not you, you're thinking about *politics* with blood dripping down your thigh... It's gonna be hard to say them. Carrying around all that weight on a busted crutch is making you pant... Technically speaking, you *could* rest here if you're hurting... someone else has. It should be possible. Still rather inviting, all things considered. It's much warmer inside than out there... You didn't realize how tired you were. Your body is still nowhere near healed... The bed is quite inviting, all things considered. It's much warmer inside than out there... You didn't realize how tired you were. Your body is still nowhere near healed... There's definitely something off with his body. Something more than just metabolism, or even cancer... There's definitely something off with his body. Something more than just metabolism... Sweat drips from your brow, soaking your chest... you reek of it, your chemicals. It’s breaking. You feel fractures across you. Out the cracks comes nothing at all. No king, no man, and no king’s man. The cracks were all there ever was. We are a spiderweb of glass that’s painful to look at. And she’s turning her head. You’re breaking. You feel fractures run across you. Out the cracks comes anger, and then nothing at all. No king, no man, and no king’s man. The cracks were all there ever was. You may not be able to take this. Not this time. Not anymore. Tell him the truth, bröther. Even if he isn't *hard* enough to hear it. They cook it alive in its exoskeleton. If you can stomach agreeing, you can turn this around on Evrart. And physically speaking -- you *can* stomach it. The pain in your chest tells you you were working yourself to death to earn that rank. It's meant to keep you safe. A single sentence would wear him out. He can't take the *length* of the questioning. Keep it going long enough and he'll crack. Coughs a lot. You smell weakness. He's getting tired of the game he's been playing. That's okay with the fat man, still wheezing there. He couldn't speak if he wanted to. Go out and run circles around the building until you come up with something. Whatever you do, don't stand here anymore. Never -- not until the case is solved. And then the next case. And the next... She's not. She's bleeding out. If she doesn't get help in 10 minutes, she'll die. She's not. She's bleeding out. If she doesn't get help in 10 minutes, she'll die. She's not. She's bleeding out. In 20 minutes she'll be dead. Maybe 15. She's not. She's bleeding out. In 20 minutes she'll be dead. Maybe 15. This one isn't used to being suited this long. She's uncomfortable; will open fire just to hurry things along. She's trying to avoid the foreigners part. This is because she's a woman. She may be *lying* to you... Seemed neurological... central nervous system's really banged up. That's an illusion. Your breathing is just as it was and will remain that way unless you start panicking. Tough son of a gun, this one. Respect. Mauled by a nightmare. Bite marks in his bones. He has an idea of what he wants but he's not giving it away. Sign of a veteran dealer -- able to withstand negotiations over minuscule amounts for *days* or even *weeks*. Only the most average survive Extinction-Level Events. That's a known fact. He's going to live to be five hundred years old. Alright, let's do this -- before anyone changes their mind! Is it some kind of performance enhancement supplement? That's because some them just don't have the best interests of the colony in mind. Fuck that cough. It's not happening. The insides of your lungs are lined with *tobacco*, a powerful antibacterial agent. You are unstoppable. This woman's health is failing her. There's not much to do, not in this damp. Come to think of it, she *does* look incredibly tired. In other words, it doesn't mean a thing to *trüe* Revacholians. And, let's be honest, there's a little chest pain -- the *good* kind, of course. You may wanna blast a Nosaphed or something. Does someone feel like throwing up? I do. A little. In this vision of hers, you are mutually opportunistic organisms. Growing like mould on the streets. This is a real killer. Not some garbage street ammo. You can *feel* it. We were right. This came from a serious weapon. The torment Lieutenant Kitsuragi is experiencing is worse than your own. He's trying to resist, but there's no way of knowing when he will recover. The torment Lieutenant Kitsuragi is experiencing is worse than your own, but he's slowly beginning to recover. She'll go out in a hail of bullets if she has to. You've gotta act soon. This is getting *bad*. Buckle up and raise your collar -- this search is going to be wet and cold. The Royal Lion. Guillaume's Kitten. This knocker will last a lifetime and then some. The Royal Lion. Guillaume's Kitten. This knocker will last a lifetime and then some. He seems ill-equipped for wherever he’s going. A king should not go about unarmed. Digging them. Wouldn't say it's exactly *safe* now -- but financially secure individuals are known adrenaline junkies. Lying will get you nowhere. You can't outrun the truth -- it will catch up to you one day. It's your own fault if you're ill, got it. It's not your moves that are at fault, per se. You almost certainly had a seizure just now -- and a much more massive one a few days ago, when you lost your memory. *And* you've been recently shot in the leg. You're absolutely beat. Muscles relaxed and feet like noodles underneath. A little? It's awful! The pain surges through your knuckles and then lingers there... slowly pulsating, reminding you of your mistake. It's an image of you that will stand the test of time. People will remember this for an age. Grill him a bit, see how he performs under pressure. Not so sure about the last part, with all that drinking... Right. Be that as it may, it might have been useful to have such a thing for the trials you'll soon be facing. It's a shame you can't get your hands on these ingredients. Speaking of, *your* gut's seen better days. It's a cesspool of burbling acids and noxious fumes, the kind of thing the government might declare a Zone of Irredeemable Catastrophe. If you can keep the vomit in. Because it sort of also makes you want to throw up. You need to lower the radiation levels, your stomach thinks. Slurp it. A man his age getting worked up like that? Better watch that blood pressure. You're not. Everything is fine. ...where unidentifiable sludge makes it hard for him to breathe. Smells of vomit in here. Yes. It's likely triggered by a focal epileptic seizure in your temporal lobe. Your heart working overtime, trying to keep up with the panicked synapses firing all over your brain. Moving litres of blood through you, panicking. Maybe don't beat yourself any more though? You're not immortal. Or maybe it's just his body and mind giving up on him, at last... The strength has all gone out of him -- just frail old bones in a sack of tracksuit trousers and a wind breaker. The iron smell of blood rises to your mouth. The money is probably going to some old, oily... The firewalker cannot die. That's right. You're protected in your ceramic carapace. Whatever harm you inflict on that world won't be visited on you. Keep it in now. Don't overreact. Breathe. Women. It's the women. Look out for the women. They're *oathbreakers*... For Revachol. Always and only Revachol. It's a *gut feeling*. He knows it exists, fuck the so-called *specialists*. You know this. The body goes into a kind of revulsion shock. Murder hangover. That's what it could've been. He's breathing heavily. That took something out of him. That explains the callouses on your hands. You scaled the side of the building, entertaining the local kids. You could use some. Are you sure you can take the most violent man in Revachol? In your condition? In his mind, his father isn't vulnerable the way other mortals are. If he doesn't stop soon, he's going to collapse from exhaustion. He's red all over. You need to rest. Your body is aching. Getting in here has taken something out of you. Have a seat. It *is* possible to live with an injury like that. Makes you touch the back of your skull, wondering if there's one in there? It sounds like you're having a heart attack -- whatever you said, it couldn't have been *that* bad. Please relax. One stroke? Don't be so modest. He's having one right now. You can take those sharp rocks! This is where the damage came from. From somewhere in the inlet. The cannons. Oh yeah... *big boy time*. This needs you to put your BACK into it. A shit-test is something wömen give men to see how strong their frame is, how confident they are. Fail it and they'll bail for another, more dominant alpha-male. It's in their nature. Natural selection. Hit the pads as fast as you can, maximum attack -- not even a bullet can get through! You can take it. Just breathe. You can take it. Just breathe in slowly. You can take this one too. Just breathe in slowly. You can take this. It's not nearly as bad as the last time. It's just a little hangover-induced photosensitivity. Don't over-react. That voice... so warm and sweet... Sounds like you were in some real *fundamental* pain there, muscle-man. Yeah, a painkiller would be good about now. This thing is *pulsating* with discomfort. With your back against the cold mosaic floor you feel the pain recede. You just need to get up and dust yourself off... Feeling nausea? Vomiting? Tenderness or pain around the liver area? Tiny red lines on the skin above waist level? More like *days*, Coppo. The clock is ticking, your liver tells you so. If you wear those pieces, it will help me protect your mortal coil. Almost snapped your neck... but I fucking got this. No pain... no pain... A cornered animal might seek a hiding place that has some sentimental value. Damn, that's cold. Your nerve endings tell you there is no such thing as a *positive* surprise. You're jabbing at the soft underbelly of his psyche. He realizes he's gotten defensive. Feels *good* though, doesn't it? The sting. Yes, but it itches really, really bad... Pain radiates through your leg. It still hurts to use it -- even for kicking snow into someone's face. Not that it will keep you warm at night. Brrr. Your toe has suffered damage. It hurts! Bullets have bitten little pieces out of him. It must have been excruciating, especially the hip... Before you is a temple of pain that knew little tenderness in life. No, you don't. You can keep it in. You can keep *anything* in. You really went with it too. Really maximized the damage. Pain Welkin. Some of your more *old-school* social views. Your love of retro music. CONDITION BLACK, ALL SYSTEMS CRITICAL! No -- your resilience. You can take this! Blossom like a pain-flower. Your body is taking a beating from the low frequencies crashing over you. It's making you feel... alive again. You're holding it together, *somehow*, despite everything... It doesn't hurt, yet. The rush of endorphins will keep the pain at bay for a while yet. That would be the sweet endorphin rush. You've granted him a natural high, at least until the hurt sets in. It *is* tearing you up. It's like there's a tiny hateful beast shredding your very soul... The more it hurts, the more you have to have it. It's too much! Your ear drums are throbbing, about to burst! *Hyyyngh!* It makes your brain swell just to think about... Dolores Dei... so, *so* beautiful. That's a pathetic-looking *bull*. Where are the sharpened horns ready to puncture your gristle? There's no real danger here. With some strange emotion. This is about to get really graphic. Last moment to back off. Test your limits. Surpass them. Dance till you drop. Dance till you die, if you must. Take the pain, god damn it, at least take that! Don't say it. You're not a degenerate alcoholic, you're a cop and a hero. Not again... take the pain, god damn it, at least take that! It's painful to even think about. These formulas look oddly *painful*. Maybe it's the hangover, but they give you a headache. The words still echo in the hallway... She's like 14! You're humiliated in front of a minor, what's *wrong* with you, son?! I wouldn't be so sure, Tommy. The pain it was causing her. A pain burns in your chest, radiating. A crown of arteries on fire. Dolores... Dora... Dolores Dei! Dolores... While it was actually her... Okay. It wasn't Dolores Dei. She's not false. And more beautiful, and *more* beautiful... Dolores Dei! Dolores... I don't even have to say it anymore. At least it clearly wasn't Dolores Dei. She wouldn't be *false*. She's beautiful. It hurts, but keep your cool. You've got this. Your fist bounces off the door and comes back to you on a wave of agony that surges up your arm. It's getting really painful for him, thinking about the body still being out there for people to see and children to desecrate. For you, she is something painful, though it's hard to say why. The beating he took must be more serious than he lets on. The pain flows over your entire body like an awful shock. A grim knowing rises from within -- half of your body must be gone. You got hit. The armour took most of it, but still your rib cage burns. Feels like blood is slowly seeping into your lungs... Get ready for a world of pain, man. The pain is too immense to scream. It pushes the air out of your lungs. Everything goes dark, a distant blur as you recede into it... No, no. It was her mostly. Don't lie to him, necktie. Here it comes. A great and terrible spike. The blood freezes in her veins. It burns like acid. It's like ripping off a bandage. The least painful way is to do it straight away, without stalling. She's in pain. She's in so much pain and so are you, your chest is burning. It burns like acid. Yes. You're a total fucking horror show. That's because they're all a bunch of squares who like to sit around with their fingers up each other's assholes. His half-open eyes give him the look of a dead man. But he is in there... and not enjoying himself. His half-open eyes give him the look of a dead man. But he is in there... and not enjoying himself. Feels like someone set a mustard field ablaze right inside your nose, then drenched it in tear gas. Your nose is a singular source of pain... but at the same time you don't remember the last time you felt so alive. Sometimes when things get very bad it's good to remind yourself that you have a body. By scratching it. Fuck it, it doesn't hurt. Punch it again, the pain is good. That's it. You're caught in a trap. It'll take quite a while for the shit-circus to end now. Ringing by the bedside of a dark but capacious apartment with long windows... you know this to be true. Your hand is swelling up. No. We're not gonna do this. Your hand is *not* going to cramp up, not now. Hey, you already practically sacrificed a limb when you got shot in the tribunal... it's nothing major! Below it all the bass grows, like the jaws of a giant compressor gnawing on metal and wood. It does not sound benevolent *at all*. This only made it harder. Here comes the pain. You would be incinerated. Or worse. A quick grimace of pain passes over René's features, but he immediately regains control. His face now a dispassionate mask again. Feels good for some reason. And gets over it in two seconds? Seems like it didn't really hurt him. The chair you're sitting on has got to be the most uncomfortable chair in the world. It's *violating* your backside. The chair is *incredibly* uncomfortable. Fortunately, your ass is made of *iron* and the chair is made of wood. Iron beats wood. You manage not to shift around too much... Written in a rush. In pain. A race to beat your own heart's pulse to some dark finish line. There's pain in there, if you want some. That much you know. Judging by the creases on your forehead and the lines on your cheeks -- too much more. Going back years, decades even.... You. The pain is barely noticeable under the adrenaline rush. So much pain. Back pain, neck pain, headaches, carpal tunnel, chest pain... no gym membership can make up for working in this manner. Did someone say *shooting yourself in the foot*? Don't worry. It'll get better when you die. Because it *stings*. In an ancient and beautiful way. Must be hard to force your face to move in a new fashion. If you continue like this, you'll have an aneurysm. Then you'll have to, too. She's pointing it *quite* hard in there. Feels like a knife. This kind of stuff would hurt -- if not for you not caring about little things like that. A bitter cringe. It *hurts*. You look to the lieutenant... A bitter cringe. It hurts her. Points are good. Have one, you old dog! Before we all die... A great pain moves through her, a dark and indefinite wave. She continues in spite of it. Ready for the damage. She knows you're grilling her. Also, it's just close enough to endure the walk. It's nothing. You're alive, that's what matters. You can take it. Just don't lean on that leg of yours too heavily. That concussion must be making him dizzy. Yeah, that kid's taken a beating -- or ten -- from his dad. He has regard for a man who can walk after taking some damage. Look at him. Life hasn't been easy on him. You wanna drag him along and put him through more shit? *Your* shit? Also, it's just close enough to endure the walk. Ouch, ouch... The kid turns double for a second. Damn, that hurts. Breathe... You can take it. Just don't lean on the old leg too heavily. You can barely hear him, the pain is so bad. A dull pain flashes through your mind. Momentarily the sounds are swept away. Pain shoots up your right foot and into your groin... This is where a lesser man would stop to think about the pain shooting up his right leg and into his groin -- not you, you're concentrated on how... This is where a lesser man would stop to think about the pain shooting up his right leg and into his groin -- not you, you're concentrated on how... Momentarily the sounds are swept away. Pain shoots up your right foot and into your groin... A small agony -- minuscule bones may have fractured -- but it proves the point. A flash of pain interrupts you, making you wince instead of letting the words out. You force the rest of the sentence out through pain, thick as molasses, without really hearing it. You push the rest of the thought through pain thick as molasses, without really concentrating on it. A flash of pain interrupts you, making you grimace instead of spewing out the words. A flash of pain interrupts your thought, making you grimace. You force the rest of the sentence out through pain, thick as molasses, no longer able to hear yourself speak. Baby, you know it's going to hurt. There's no way he could manage the pain without them. It's safe to say he is addicted to painkillers by now. Like an amputated limb in the sand. Suddenly -- another flash of pain. Worse than the one before. The taste of blood in your mouth. The insect tastes it too, twitching suddenly... Change of topic! Another flash of pain. Again you swallow it, but this time, some of it does not stay down. You think you taste it in your mouth. So does the insect, twitching suddenly... What more is there in any of us? You think, as the sight of the insect fades and pain shoots up your right foot and into your abdomen, darkening your view... when it returns the insect twitches, feeling the blood on you... The sight of the insect pulses with pain, as a streak of fire tries to shoot up your leg. You swallow it. Unmoved. Not now. There's blood dripping... warm. The creature must feel it too, it twitches. It would take a million years of evolution -- or a total reversal in the condition of the world -- for your pain to end. Desperation is gearing up. This... is a bit *much* for me. It feels like your ribs are cracking around your heart. Yeah. Put a stake through your heart. She'll get hurt too -- collateral damage. No. This has to end. Do the last one. Far enough not to hurt for a while. The pain is true. He's seen the kids do worse than that. It looks better on him because he isn't in as much *pain* while producing it as you are now. Although there's already a hint of that pain, certainly. A symmetric burn on his neck, resembling the letters *Los Los*. Has he tried to burn it off, leave that life behind? A flash of pain, like slamming your fist against iron. He is stronger than he looks -- and he looks like Ramout Karzai. Stop thinking about your lost gun, dammit. You'll get a heart attack. You should say: I need to kill myself and it's all over! Betrayal is not painless. Even a doubt of it hurts. His wife left him. He needs to kill himself -- make her sorry she did. Also, you should say: I need to kill myself and it's all over! There's real anguish in his voice. A drunken sadness suddenly engulfs him. Memories... So you volunteered, sometime in the past? For the beatdown and the hail of bullets? So very you... The pain written in the creases of his face... sheesh! This is a man who's been trying to catch falling knives for *years*. You sucked on a gun? Good. Good. Very normal. He's taking it for mental and emotional, not physical pain these days. These words hit you *right* where it hurts. Strange... there are no memories of that recorded anywhere in your body. He's making it up. Ouch... That voice should be registered as a sonic weapon, cause the damage it does to your head is *very* real. Like a diving suit powered by pain. Agonizing pain... *And* your leg still hurts from the tribunal. Lowball her. The wretched are used to rolling with the punches. Doesn't wish to hurt you? Not according to your ear canals... wait, no, not even your ear canals -- this is going directly into your neural pathways. It's especially bad suddenly. Felt like a vein exploded. The pain is becoming unbearable now. As she says the word "officer," you feel a spike in the agony. It sounds like the entire radio frequency range is screaming directly into your neural pathways. Well, it doesn't *feel* much better, but you can form sentences now. Thinking doesn't seem to hurt as much. There is no coming back from this one. It will stay with you -- in nightmares. Yeah... Because falling from that height seems, well -- SPLAT! So don't do that. Just, you know... Brace yourself! Is that blood on the ground before you? Are your ears *bleeding*? There. It's going to be easier to reach the machine now. We've been here before. You've got this. It's too much! Your ear drums are throbbing, about to burst! This guy clearly gets off on macabre stories. You've got just the one -- an absolute skullfuckery. Even better if you can find someone else, preferably a large man dressed in nothing but a towel, to thrash you while you're spread naked and helpless on a cool slab. The girl is cold all of a sudden. Very cold. Man up! It's nothing. Pick the goddamn key up, put it in your pocket, and move on. Your aching leg doesn't want you to imagine *anything*, however. It just wants to lie down and rest. Oh, whatever. This barely registers as damage. The pain, it is nothing! Revel in it! Absorb it! Gain power from it! He doesn't know whether to expunge or consume. What will pacify the wrenching feeling in his gut? Fuck it. Do it. It can't be worse than what you've already felt. That hurt. The man knows where to sting. That guy is a fraud. It's not as bad as it feels. You've maybe pulled a joint; the indignity makes it worse. Cuno *feels* it; this was no light tap. The pain of the word recedes, he's feeling better now. Further away from *education*. A sharp pain shoots up your side and into your stomach. You must not look too good. Luckily it passes... This guy is suffering from clinical depression. And it's been going on awhile. Ouch, you strained your elbow trying to catch that stupid thing... dammit. *Not* familiar in a good way, you might say. There's pain in there somewhere... I'm sorry this didn't do anything... usually hurting yourself does. I'm sorry this didn't do anything... usually hurting yourself does. Ooh, that's the good stuff. THE MOTIVE! There you go, see, this works. DO THE MOTIVE. The pain has dislodged something in your soaked sponge of a brain... I'm sorry this didn't do anything... usually hurting yourself does something for you. You need to punch yourself again! I'm sorry this didn't do anything... usually hurting yourself does. I'm sorry this didn't do anything... usually hurting yourself does something for you. A little pain there. A prick. Slap yourself in your head, jump start it! And then he lost. So did they all. Slap yourself in your head again, jump start it! Like parting from a loved one. Like parting from a loved one. Like parting from a loved one. Don't take it personally. There just wasn't any *juice* left in your carton, pal. Sort of. But by god does it *burn* in your chest... And there's a lot of it. Ever present in your organs. It's like every one of them has their own *nasty* song to sing. Sharp pain shoots through your hip, throbbing... Like you don't have enough on your plate! You feel a sudden surge of self-pity coming on... The prospect of the Cuno turning lame is physically painful for her. The lameness is causing her physical pain. The damage may be permanent. That room was so small. To be stuck in there with him... not an easy fight for a kid. No. You'd remember that. You've been shot at four times. Hit twice. Don't. There's this *itch* in the middle of your skull, where you've never reached. Never scratched... There's just this *itch*, deep under your skull, where you've never reached. Never scratched... You'll plough your way toward the frigid lands of Katla and Vaasa, smashing every ice sheet in your path. Nothing, *nothing* can stop an icebreaker... Was this not the same *élan* that founds empires and lays waste to cities, virile, uncaring towards *the little things*? This is a horrible allegory for... whatever is on the other end. *Officer* could be an artistic statement. You're already prone to those. *Officer* could be an artistic statement. A claim to *official* renown. A silver jumpsuit falls off her like scale armour, sparkling. This is the sparkle of too many nights out on the city. Isn't it... evil? The order of magnitude between what is asked of a person -- and what they have? Reál? Must be cosmetics. Probably a body milk. His personality is no longer a part of the world. It's a puzzle -- what's hanging in front of you is a puzzle of decaying flesh, tattoos, and tendons. ...like whorls of floorboards. The design looks organic, influenced by highly resistant wood materials, like Lignum Vitae and ebony perhaps. As if someone left out most of the night sky, filtering it through personal choice. The principle of this filter remains unknown to you. The thought dissipates and you feel as though you were only half-right. Sometimes even that is not enough... Life is unfair. We'll show him. You'll tear it up ALL the styles! What about Revacholian literature? People sometimes reveal things about themselves when they discuss such matters... It's like she's... disappointed this wasn't about more entertaining matters. It's no mere turn of phrase. This young woman has a deeply rooted understanding of what *sad* means. What was that? Funkytown? What is there to do now -- stranded here? The question is personal to her. More than humour. No, it wouldn't. It would be thematic. She makes it sound like losing one's name was as common as a mid-life crisis. The place is so pornographically poor it's not even funny. That's kind of grim for a children's song. Even if it is a lullaby. She says it as if he was on some kind of spiritual retreat. He's interested in things that people believe that scientists don't. Doesn't sound like he particularly wants to be lumped in with them either. His is a scientific community of one. A *ghost insect*, he said? These people are looking for a ghost. Dammit lieutenant, have you no intellectual curiosity? A performance that would make the star of a radio melodrama blush. Literary demotion! That's the worst... A tender type of hope. Something stirs in you... perhaps this is why *you* broke it? Isn't it... evil? The order of magnitude between what is asked of a person -- and what they have? Good pick. So desperately mundane. You need to funk this case up. The lieutenant's Conceptualization skills must be rather *rudimentary*. It's all part of the Masterplan, you see. It's no mere brain. From an imaginary fan. It can still be an otherwordly sex-mystery *in your head*. With a dark twist, even. Challenge accepted. You should be on the lookout for stylistic elements that elevate this cabbage to heights unforeseeable. You don't even have a joke. Of course: there is a moral to be drawn from it -- a moral to this story! They *are* damn iconic though -- Torson and McLaine! If you declare your life forfeit; if you declare yourself a doomed man... A doomed man does not need comfort. From *anything*. He can go on without drink, or help. Like a clockwork. Snow Welkin. Blonde Welkin... 'In the centre of this town there's a ghostly motorway', she sang. She is receding. In the clutches of some indescribable, scattered emotion. A child. Descending. In the background, a quiet song seeps from her cabin into the air. You don't hear any vocals. The pale. Sounds like *the* drug to me. It's death -- but for the Universe? Oh, we're contemplating the living *shit* out of this. Oh no. He's pretty much a bum now. My money is on cool. Looks like a cubic pyrite. *This* limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering is grinding to a halt. Tired of walking the desert, it doesn't want to feel or think anymore. She must have built a new -- sadly better -- reality from the only material available: radio waves and cop shows. Great gears are grinding to a halt. The machine is powering down. She's all out of jolt. Cultural victory? What is this then? He isn't even drawn right. What *was* that? An idea for an unfinished novel stuck somewhere in your fore-brain? When she grows up, and if she grows up to be clever, she'll discover there's no such thing as a 'grown-up.' A book with ragged edges catches your notice. The front cover features a large, muscular man. The title reads: 'Man from Hjelmdall in the Lost City of the Pygmies'. You're part of the future-brigade now. And so is your formerly humdrum ledger. Neon, baby! There is something blindingly *modern* about this symbol. Its modernness puts to shame everything you've seen before. This is it... this is a new era. The fabric of the world has been irrevocably altered. Isn't that what *real* artists do? Make it up as they go along? Why wouldn't they be? Are the lungs not the place where you hold the breath of your soul? Could it be? Maybe for him -- you only have a chapter or two left in you. Last of the penultimate, more like... What do we have around here to achieve some sort of... *parallel processing*... What do we have around here to achieve some sort of... *parallel processing*... If anything, it sounds a bit *proto*. Like it's not fully formed yet. You might be a moribund alcoholic and a failed cop, but you are pretty certain a thing cannot be both *proto* and *hard core*. This is it... this is a new era. The fabric of the world has been irrevocably altered. There is definitely something futuristic about his hair, aggressively so. You get the sense that *this* is what the future will look like... That soft-core gyrating is supposed to be *dancing*? Do it. Do it for art. Like a cat rubbing itself against its owner's calves. (A cat that wants you to smoke a lot.) Imagine, the audacity of wanting to read a novel in a reading group! Even better, you're able to connect those themes to your critique of the novel's formal qualities, such as they are. No, wait! Can this really be the end? You feel like you've just gotten to the real stuff. Yes, now keep developing the idea. Let them know your interest in muscleman literature is much more high-minded than they're giving you credit for. Ahem. As a noted art cop you definitely have an opinion on this. This is your chance to show off your own critical faculties. Show them what an *introspective* cop looks like! Communist theorists love puns, in case that wasn't obvious. Just a minute. Steban... Ulixes... *why* do those names ring the faintest of bells? Come on, let's *really* impress them. Overturn the *race-class paradigm*. The more esoteric, the better. It reminds you of something, but you can't think of what. Oh well, let's see if the students are still going... Time to meet these two on the intellectual battlefield. Why don't you show off those highly developed critical faculties of yours? Ah, so he *has* read something besides his books of abstruse theory! Hey! You're not just 'some cop', you've got highly developed critical faculties! Now's your chance to show them off. Extremely different from discussing the aesthetic merits of avant-garde literature while quaffing a fine Mirovan red, eh, Art Cop? Of course! They're the ones who produced that overwrought *critique* of TipTop Tournée. The way they billow in the night breeze reminds you of something... Just a minute. Steban... Ulixes... *why* do those names ring the faintest of bells? What are these levels they're talking about? This doesn't sound like any communism you've encountered before... There's no way those are real names. It's the stilted language and overconfident tone that's the real giveaway here. You're almost certainly reading a recycled university essay, one that could probably use some edits. Hyper-productive vegetables and ultra-horny communards are fine, but this theory hasn't quite gotten strange enough for you. A true man of ideas, equal to any of the great Dolorian polymaths. What an interesting colour palette. It's vibrant, yet somehow leaves you ever so slightly nauseated. Yes, you have a little cabinet for organizing and storing them away. As though the whole plaza were a giant radiocomputer, and the hostel its glowing filament memory. What she means is... actually... you have no idea what those words could mean in this context... Come on! Kings and sabres are so *played out*. There's a *better* way... Your head is so full of colourful thoughts, you never *feel* alone... If this transceiver were a person, it would be an accountant at a large logistics firm. Perfectly competent, but unexceptional. No, it's more like a creature from the abyssopelagic zone, a great dark bioluminescent fish... Not just any fish, it moves like some ancient bottom-feeder gliding over the ocean floor in search of prey... He does have potential... defying authority, thinking outside the box... Interesting. Are we speaking of visual art or something more *conceptual*? A strong aura of *originality* surrounds the girl in question. An underground kingdom of shimmering spillways! Silver stars melted down and filtered for their precious discharge. What a place of inspiration! 'Gone rogue'? No, Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. Don't you see? Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. Don't you see? Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. Don't you see? Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. 'Gone rogue'? No, Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. Oh yes, much is to be discussed at length here. The éclaboussure breaks up the lines of the original bronze piece, setting up an act of rebellion for us all to follow. It is an anarcho-modern calling -- destruction of the past, cause for the future. 'Gone rogue'? No, Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. 'Gone rogue'? No, Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. Don't you see? Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. 'Gone rogue'? No, Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. Don't you see? Idiot Doom Spiral has finally achieved something *remarkable*. No, you weren't. Otherwise you *would have* said it. In truth, it was quite beyond your associative powers. Hmm... maybe that *would* work? We'll have to see. Interesting. He wants you to *describe* it, though he already knows what it looks like. It was probably white and gold, with light red flower motives. Part of you -- assumed to be lost to nerve damage -- knows this style to be Ubi Dolorianism. Rarely has there been a more apt pairing of man and transceiver. This is a portent of great success. Lord of the western plain! It is really happening, right here, the migrants are contaminating our youth! This could have made him more open to discussing the *Race Enigma" with you... That will be the... Like a machine. You should try to come up with a heroic story of your own -- impress this old soldier. Not just any face... it reminds you of the grotesque carvings sometimes found in prehistoric caves. Wow. *Void wraiths*. You have new words. No, not presence -- *Absence*. She speaks almost as if she's trying to put a *spell* on you, urging you to buy more books... Today the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette, the masculine jokes. Today the embrace before hurting. It'll take more than rain to bring this place back to life. A downy blanket of white to cover up the miserable poverty of the scene. She is like a student unexpectedly called upon by a teacher. Can she answer the classroom question? What will her essay prompt be? What's that magazine she's reading? *FALN "Ultra" -- wear the future!* You remember the slogan from some magazine... She sounds almost antique, as if her voice was being played off an old wax cylinder. Her receiver must not be working properly. What an ominous name for a hair salon... Doesn't bode well for anyone's hair. It almost looks as if the stones and dice are a natural part of the room, growing out of the shelves like stalagmites. A bit of experimenting every now and then isn't bad. Sounds cool. Ice... death... loss... sounds like you. That's understandable. Fantasies are serious things. The mind is the drawing board of history. It's even worse than she says. God is dead -- We live in a forsaken age. Indeed, what were the other ideas? No, you're a proud warrior, keep it. Maybe you could *paint* something with this coal? Leave a cave painting for future archaeologists... no, that would be stupid. You have created an *ice bear sarcophagus*. He's right. His work would be much more formal. Ask for his conclusion. A simple little cadence. He seems to be making it up as he goes. It's official. He too agrees. This is the antechamber of the afterlife. A rhyme-smith? This is quite credible -- it goes with his cadence and way of speaking. Jerry is a cool name. *This* is beyond primitive. How can they fit into all the holes and gaps? Are they very tiny people? Or are they... eyes, separated from the body? Life-world? Someone's been reading up on last century Gottwaldian philosophers. Play it cool now. You're not *limping*. You're *you*. Oh, you're getting it and it *is* gorgeous. Hordes of wild homeless people roaming the lands, nomads scattered across an endless plain in a dystopian world where tare is the only valid currency... and people eat each other to stay alive. He doesn't know your language, you can just say something cool in return. It's almost like music, especially with the sounds of assorted dishes boiling and simmering on the stove. That's another leitmotiv associated with moralism. Something kind and *usual*. This guy's appropriating the emerging Boogie Street lingo as part of his sales pitch for the free market economy. This is the beginning of your *legend*. They'll be super, super fine. It'll be totally *okay*. You can dual-copotype from sorry to anything. After all this time with Morell, he must have an opinion on cryptids -- this could lead to a good one. It's a secret rite. A very fringe-nationalist handshake, probably. Absolute destruction. The helmet looks like the face of an ancient god of war, crying blood. Life gets haaaaaaaaaard. But we go ooooooooooooooon... 'I feel it in my fingers... I feel it in my toes...' Well, napalm ants for example are used in some rites of passage rituals... Two birds on a wire, whistling by the seaside. Looking at the water. And a sunken car. Okay, okay... that's way better than what you did. It's hardly a side-investigation. You already have a name for it. There's not an *ounce* of artistry here! It's even worse than expected. Those critics might have it wrong, though. There's more to it than just 'ironism'... but you can't say what precisely. Perhaps this art mystery will be solved at a later time? Unreal. Unreal. A chill runs down your spine as you envision a half-dozen people in professional attire standing around a chair awkwardly pretending to be waiting for a motor-bus. It's neither funny nor creative. Not just any fish, it moves like some ancient bottom-feeder gliding over the ocean floor in search of prey... Hanging? What a drag. He seems like a *cultured* gentleman -- you should ask him about the finer things... As though you weren't envious enough of the boy as-is. No, it's more like a creature from the abyssopelagic zone, a great dark bioluminescent fish... While the *grand bourgeois* in La Delta are so rich, they literally float above the law, this merry company crawls so far beneath, they too are rendered virtually untouchable. The beauty of extremities. Made of black film and folding tape structures... No, it's more like a creature from the abyssopelagic zone, a great dark bioluminescent fish... Not just any fish, it moves like some ancient bottom-feeder gliding over the ocean floor in search of prey... All of this sounds like something Ruby would be interested in... That's not bad. A quaint little box of radio waves. A quaint little box of radio waves. A quaint little box of radio waves. Home? Hello, Girard. Technically speaking, you're electricity. This is too much... You need to recede... All right. Let's consider the context and meaning here. He said something about "saeraffic existence" before. Maybe this is what he was talking about? All right. Let's consider the context and meaning here. And your mind's pretty clear, all things considered. In fact, it's too clear for you to be buying into this climbing vision quest. But, can't deny it -- your mind's pretty clear, all things considered. In fact, it's too clear for you to be buying into this climbing vision quest. Like love. When was the last time this world had anything new to say? Valley of the Thousand Heads? You like the sound of that. I bet she hasn't even heard it. Like that evil ink that filled the printout, erasing coherence and meaning. It's the abyss staring back at you. A note of awe in her voice. She's shocked and pleased by her own audacity... And a bit of conceptual unity too, it being yellow and all... Perhaps they *are* gods. Gods of distance and outer dust. It's symbolic of vice and sin. See the way she's suggestively holding that pistol? That's *symbolism*. Books in a *board game* section? Who wants to read books!? Do her words seem vague and abstract to you? It's like an organic sample brought back from a distant star system inhabited by sentient neckwear. Aeons ago. Probably when you were still a child. The sole purpose of 'pornography' is to stimulate one's visual sense to evoke sexual arousal -- the same is true with the modifications you're proposing. There are *way* more inventive ways than a gun to leave this world. It's like a little engine has come alive on the other side of the fence. An engine that only says *kipt*. If there ever was such a thing as an ugly kid, then this is it. He's almost exquisite in his ugliness. Like a gremlin. Hmm... perhaps you could compress this negative energy and turn it into some sort of a Cunofied Nonvomitor? Rhythmic pattern -- calms your mind. Mammals like this stuff. Hmm... it *was* interesting. No arguing against that. He's probably one of those rare specimens who are born when two drunk seamen stumble on top of each other on the deck amidst a storm so violent it flings whales around. The lyrics to this container-song are being made up as he goes along. It's like some red infection was spreading outwards from the container yard's core. Yeah, keep her in the *loop*. It's strangely enjoyable to report back on the minute progress you've made. Even to strangers. What are you waiting for, ask about the disco already. You need some fresh jams to get out of this rut. It says: everyone look at me and my *kitchen tissue* covered cop ledger! I don't *care*. My ledger is droopy and it smells like a urinal. One day you may still catch the man with the square gun. Sadly, the ledger only comes with an old worn-down led pencil. It's unfitting of this monumental event. It's not exactly poetry -- but poetry would be out of place. You don't have to be an intellectual giant to do police-work. It says: everyone look at me and my toilet paper covered cop ledger! I don't *care*. My ledger is droopy and it smells like a urinal. Not a new addition, though. So keep that *styling case* open, my friend... Challenge accepted. You should be on the lookout for stylistic elements that elevate this cabbage to heights unforeseeable. A *title* one might say even. One that draws inspiration from snoop fiction and Vespertine cop show staples. It says: everyone look at me and my toilet paper covered cop ledger! I don't *care*. My ledger is droopy and it smells like a urinal. Sparks fall like snow from the bow collector. A street-car distancing... Yes-yes, you know what that normal name is -- but it's so plain... *anything* else, please. Thank you, waterlogged ledger, for spelling it out for us. It says: everyone look at me and my *kitchen tissue* covered cop ledger! I don't *care*. My ledger is droopy and smells like a urinal. Not a new addition, though. So keep that *styling case* open, my friend... This man will never sleep again. Never wake. This looks like an *enormous improvement* on the classic Wirrâl setting. Much more *advanced*. Light years ahead. If they put this much effort into making welkin cooler, imagine what they did with the dweorg and the humans? Definitely not. That's not bad. Maybe it's the second part of the leitmotiv you saw on the stained glass window. Surprisingly eloquent, really. The last one, not the first three -- those are ape-speak. She makes a point of being unromantic about it. Relax. She meant it in jest. She hasn't actually said it to every drunk in town. It was spoken in jest. What she calls *corruption* is simply an aesthetic category. These are the kind eyes of the rich-man, that seem to say: everything is possible... For all the boys looking for adventure -- a blood spatter on the seas. The Old Old World passing by and the New New World already here. Investigation upon investigation, here in Martinaise, racing toward some dark deadline. Like a crossword puzzle solver. Or a master at the guessing game Peng. He seems to be in some sort of *loop*. Intellectually speaking... it would be quite *interesting* to hear what she has to say about these things... Called Volta do Mar, or Return from the Sea. You've thought it a million times. Like a cancer of the blood, metastasising... What is it, what is it, what is it? You can *feel* it -- something pushing against the other side of a locked door. You *must* find the key! That dialect is Ubi Sunt?. You recognize the quote from somewhere. A play, written way back in the Franconigerian century... Suddenly you're not so sure *you're* part of the supraculture... It *must* be. This is the greatest and kindest arrangement the atoms had in them. An *experimental* side-case. ...and to Humanity at large. She likes the *totality* of it. All that untaxed income must have fuelled *The New*. That can only mean one thing... She means it's part of the future you won't experience. She's right, you're basically an epidermochromatic police officer. Another day -- hustlin' and grindin' in the free world! Your understanding of the worker's struggle is about one century old, she's thinking. Oh yeah, you *get it*. Actually there are a few -- cryptoanalyst, radio officer... Now *that* is intriguing. You had me at Doorgunner. You're getting an intellectually *unsatisfying* vibe from this conversation. Maybe you're doing something wrong? You can't leave it like that -- spin it on its head. ENGAGE CAPS LOCK. There's a joke you're not getting here. Could have something to do with the brain damage. Okay, yes -- you get the joke. Leave it at that. Of course it tastes vile. Look at the effort you put in the culinary side of this? Not exactly fine dining, is it? It's not a very good mother-joke, but the room still laughs. Something about those mother-jokes just *works*. A two-hearted spider. Nothing. Just time passing. Don't worry. The date of your re-entry into the fossil record. Is this Oranjese lit? Is this Oranjese lit? Could it mean *Klaasje* is an allacronym? For Katarzine Alasije? Fucked? People after her? *Moralintern* people? This isn't Oranjese lit! It also makes *Klaasje* almost an allacronym -- for Katarzine Alasije. She sounds like a sixth grader, apologizing. It's an empty vessel, an amphora waiting to be filled. Something always *returns* from the past -- it's how the future happens. And when it does, many guesses turn out to have been right. Big-up fucky-fingers? He *is* a *free-thinker*. Beyond the box. Can't argue with that. He went with the 'Furies'. Perhaps the internal strife it implies was not so off after all? Or perhaps to honour your wishes? Or for some other reason. Hard to say... The Return... Are there actually two of them? Are you sure you're not just hallucinating or seeing double? Could it be? Do their minds work in the same way? Like a silent orchestra tuning -- at the beginning of some major work. At least you can *think* about opening it. About doors in general -- they are, after all, fundamental to your life. Perhaps something useful will come from this? At least you can *think* about opening it. About doors in general -- they are, after all, fundamental to your life. Perhaps something useful will come from this? That is his idea of a joke. Is it not the wisest man who knows he knows nothing? Perhaps it's a... Where it has always been. You should engage him about inframaterialism. Impress him with all the *ideas* you picked up from the reading group. He stares on, his wrinkled mouth moving without a sound -- a strange sadness, like a song. So that's why he's 'the deserter.' These eyes are charred black by the images that have entered them. Technically this wasn't traditional rock. It was more *independent melodic*. Sha'i'tan, Ahura, The Darkened One. Praying to you. It was you. Coming from the west. From the Whirling. You were coming... Its insect mind is impenetrable to your reasoning. Immortalized. So what if the next picture doesn't come? This creature is not the photographer, just the camera. Instead of air, you exhale thoughts. There are no trees that eat thoughts. In your mind you could still climb inside her bed. Still the only man... The world's most precious material, reserved for those she lets close enough to feel it. You are stealing a touch. It's not yours to take. You have to say *something*. Silence. A distant wind blows. You can't think of anything pretty to say. She will -- once you have erected the TEMPLE OF LIGHT. Like two baby crocodiles. This is art... *underground* art... a *scene*. The starting gun fires. And we're off! That's the name of the song. Vulgarity is la belle du jour. The cloak looks like a bag of goodies floating in the wind. Who knows what its pockets may hide?! Hermeneutics was almost within your grasp, but now only vague letters float before your eyes. Less meaningful, but aesthetically more pleasing. Words flow like a river of honey from his lips. Words flow like a river of honey from his lips. You don't feel like either one of these things -- you know what your name is. You have a sophisticated name. Like that of a count. Or a beautiful man. You don't feel like any of these things -- you know what your name is. You have a sophisticated name. Like that of a count. Or a beautiful man. Oh yeah, skull and bones! Skull and bones on the Revacholian flag. The Revacholian Death Squad. Oh yeah! The visual image has completely bedazzled you. You're 100% with Evrart now. And then there will be a giant statue of him, towering above it all? His smile is so wide it could blanket the universe. Wake up the past and tell it to stay awake -- the bad times are here to stay. A name like armour. It's almost an anthropological sight: watching him try to assert dominance over you. This is a serious violation of the karaoke code. Tibbs -- that's short for... So that's what it was -- a song you heard at some point, lodged in the back of your head. Probably not a very *good* point. Bet their father's named Atticus Hardie -- Lucretia Hardie would be their sister. Anyway. It's like an organic sample brought back from a distant star system inhabited by sentient neckwear. Perhaps it's for the best. Him not talking *too* much. That tape you picked up said '43. You seem to be a hip modern man who listens to hip modern records, so it must be '43. That dimple is a flower attracting lust, vice, and sin. The SAMARAN BUTTER billboard still looks freshly painted, suggesting it took the plunge recently. Turn it into an art installation. Invite viewers to question what it means to bring an outside light, *inside*? We have so many barriers to break down and concepts to explore... for a price, of course. You know, these visuals would look *super cool* in the church. This would make quite a statement in your living room. Makes you feel *rebellious*. Okay. That checks out. That's odd. Why doesn't he like music? Remember -- he doesn't like music. He likes *sounds*. The *Doorgunner Megamix* is his type of tape! Certainly he'd give you a discount if he knew you'd play something so *experimental*. Sounds like he's already heard the Requiem For All Lifeforms and wasn't that impressed. His theory isn't exactly *incoherent*, but its logic does suggest some *unusual* neural activity. Interesting... Like the last rays of the evening sun gently kissing the day goodbye, before giving way to unfathomable darkness. Hmm... maybe if you inquire more about the present, you'll figure out the secret of returning to the past. He has a point. While an idea is born potentially immortal, flesh is always doomed to die. This goes far beyond your conceptual reach... beyond the conceptual reach of *anyone*, really. Find common ground with him, ease yourself in there. To be able to revert back to a previous version of yourself, to the one before all the mistakes... that's why we're here! Small hut, pregnant with screams of anguish and terror. The lowered head of the mother as she gnaws at the child's joint. Chewing, screams, agony. Finally there's a tiny crunch, followed by the sound of weeping. Like a submarine fuelled by suffering. That tape you picked up said '43. You seem to be a hip modern man who listens to hip modern records, so it must be '43. More important than a missing *expedition?* I don't know... expeditions often lead to something interesting. Some fringe-science is *exactly* what's needed right now. Spice up that *vanilla* murder investigation. Now maybe she'll open up about those *fascinating cryptids*. Take her mind off all this... Yes! Some left-field scientific research is exactly what you need right now. Funk up that *vanilla* murder investigation. *Are* there? Some of the other things are pretty bad. Yes, please. Some science fiction is *exactly* what's needed right now. Spice up that *vanilla* murder investigation. A conductor for the hundreds of story threads that pass through the Game Master's Frequency. The whole thing resembles Kedran mosaic tiles. Very Pisantic. His slender figure is backlit by city lights, its distant streets and motorways flashing like diamonds... And he's gone again. Looks like it's becoming a theme for him. A man like you can figure out his sexuality in a working day. It won't be twenty hours unless you want to enter the heightened realms of the *fantasme érotique* afterwards. Then it may be twenty hours *or more*! But that would be on your own time. The beauty, the truth, the poetry of it all... She had an eye for beauty. Super cool! Someone should give them millions of reál *immediately*. This game is too good to be left unfinished. He's right. This wasn't your grandma's game studio, this is something else. This is *way* above your tiny little policeman head. To him, being a cop in the RCM was truly expressed in that performance. The inspiration will come to her once *hell* is set loose on the streets. It's too calm right now. A brush -- an artist? The red splatter is... urban expressionism? There's tension in these strokes of genius, a desire to step into a dialogue with the viewer, to provoke them. A meditation on... *Sein und Nichtsein*? The right idea is not coming to her. It's excruciating. Interesting. You can immediately see multiple ways to interpret this piece. What is the *experience* that the artist is trying to create? What *bodies* and *spaces* are they seeking to explore? You know what you've got in that fuel canister you scavenged from your Kineema? Red-dyed heavy fuel oil. Time to get to *proper* work, artiste. Forget this *public* art. She must have something private and esoteric. Something that tormented her until she brought it into existence. She's probably not a good example of the gang either. *Or* maybe these SKULLS are more of an art movement than a gang. Perhaps not *everyone* is an artist after all. Her neurons must be on fire, the heat creating waves and ripples in all she sees -- above all, in her painting. No, you weren't. Otherwise you *would have* said it. In truth, it was quite beyond your associative powers. That's rich coming from a young girl dressed up like a granny. There's something disdainful in the way the curves and lines of the bodies were drawn. Folded M dimension. A reference to the popular science fiction series *In System*. Look who's in a good mood suddenly (and reads science fiction). Then -- houses along a narrow street. A video rental. Darkness on the planet's curvature. If one hornet can kill 40 honeybees in a minute, then three hornets should be able to kill 120 honeybees in a minute... Or more, since they'll also be covering one another. I hate to interrupt the deafening pain you're in, but Joyce said it was possible to force dimensions by using radio waves. This must be one of the devices used to send radio signals across the pale. Or spiritual? She could be looking for refuge... Or spiritual? She could be looking for refuge... Feld *Electrical*. How ironic -- all these dark rooms... What if you were to *re-conceptualize* climbing the ladder? She's got good taste and must have taken whatever she recorded here seriously. She had good taste and must have taken what she recorded here seriously. Right on. So you know she's not an antiques enthusiast. Not my jurisdiction, man, but it also doesn't sound like she used that secret route. At all. You're still coming up with sentences. That's a step up from total annihilation, right? Like skyscrapers, spires of dirt and sand rising. Accommodations for their insectoid inhabitants? It's the work of a self-taught visionary. Come on! Kings and sabres are so *played out*. There's a *better* way... Pity. The jackets are meant to complete each other. If a man were standing alone on a street corner with 'PISSF****T' written on his back, it'd just be an individual that has taken a liking to urine. And 'FUCK THE WORLD' all on its own is, frankly, generic. Maybe it's true -- the hanged man is merely a prop in a performance, we are the audience, and the artist is hiding somewhere in the dark? That's an origin story for a dynamic duo right there. SKULLS -- now there's a strong organizational title. That's just one of the many dangers of getting too deep into karperie. That's not very *art*. Tell him it contains an invisible pigment used by corporate spies. Own the palette and you can unveil a whole world of concealed communications. Tell him it was used to mix together an invisible pigment. Own it and he opens up a whole world of concealed communications. This subtle terror is part of her iconography. She acknowledges the passing of someone who is still alive... That is why the lungs are the symbol of love for the cultures of the Reál Belt. No. You *must* know. Respectful? Is the lieutenant a follower of Dolorianism? Ptew ptew! Sweeesh! Your credentials as the resident Futureman of Revachol are being questioned. Show her you're hip with the times, gramps! Women's fencing. It's an elegant activity. Interesting term. Time to glean some knowledge! This is an evolutionary step up from amplified instruments, which in turn are a step up from acoustic instruments. What comes after it, you wonder: a black-tinted nothingness, or something finer? The gesture is super-futuristic. Goes well with his spiked imbecile-hair. As you open your eyes, you should scream "HYPER! HYPER!" (It seems appropriate.) This is your chance -- to show up for art. He looks almost innocentic, with that Harmon-Wowshi player raised up high. Could this be the certainty a spirit-of-the-world feels? Yup, sounds like a seizure. And you probably had a more massive one a few days back. He looks almost innocentic, with that Harmon-Wowshi player raised up high. Could this be the certainty a spirit-of-the-world feels? Maybe the church was designed in this way to prevent boisterous activity -- singing and dancing -- on its premises? The utter *genius* of its design -- conveyed beautifully through his commitment to a singular aesthetic. He's gone above and beyond! A paradigm-shattering revolutionary!? Hmm... the level of conceptualization *could* always be higher, yes. What an athlete! There should be a new word for drunk moves like that -- like alco-lete or gin-nast! So this is how being on the other side of the barrel feels. We're going to need examples here -- just going by one of your initials doesn't cut it. His eyes are your eyes. Truly, he has the soul of an artist. Sounds intriguing. What say you, art cop? It is. *Idiot Doom Spiral*, huh? This is bound to be a good, high-concept conversation. At last! Because it's the most working class death you've ever seen. Naked women and giant swords -- is that really the best they could come up with? Feels formulaic and... derivative. What better place to escape than past? He doesn't even have a real name. What is inside this Man? Or is muscle and bone all he is? This book makes a mockery of the very idea of good plotting, though something tells you coherence was never the point. Oh, for fuck's sake... The very thought of this tea causes your muscles to relax and your mind to clear. You're more present and in control than you were a moment ago. The point is for the reader to feel like *they're* solving the crime along with Dick Mullen. A crude narrative convention, but no less effective for it. Real art is dense and difficult. If it didn't feel like you had to wrestle a suicidal bear to get through it, you weren't really reading. If points are really *arbitrary*, as the lieutenant says, what's to stop you from playing the game the way *you* want? The name echoes through the deep dark halls of history... it calls to you and your kin! Something with colours and headwear. Soldiers identify with those things. There he stands. Proud, rigid, and alone, like a cracking marble statue. And now we both walk away and everybody lives. Tell this lost comrade what the People's Sandwich would be like. Distil the essence of the Working Man... in a sandwich. I'm sure we can come up with something with a bit more *oomph* than that. A pretty *lame* oranjese name. Nowhere near *Cuno*... The thought crosses your mind and then it's gone. Perhaps something for later? Historical revisionism has taken place. They will also make you into an idiot. What is it with all these *material objects*?! So you don't *remember* not remembering. Beautiful. Gun? Yeah, you don't have that. Maybe you can *philosophize* your way out of it? Shitkid. What an interesting moniker. In what is called the IL -- the International Language, developed by scientists from Graad in the Twenties! Sinus means 'Sign', for example. You should eat it slowly, really savour the chef's concept. Hang on, you can do this. *Use your imagination*. You know who the suspects are, just... make it up. Politics. Hit him with POLITICS and he may start giving his motive... The whole world is a locked mechanism for him, all of history, with only one shaft of light that shone in 44 years ago. He will *not* stop now, these dialectical materialist types never do. Exploit it. Most of these titles seem to be in the sci-fi genre. Some thrillers too. Can't bring the dead back. For him to stop reacting to stimuli, to be broken off from the world. Cordoned into darkness. Wait! It suddenly strikes you... perhaps it was not as it seemed? There was something about a statue, and nihilistic advertising agency people? Might be worth investigating... ...an idea. Told to him by grown ups, from radio towers and leaflets, in beautiful print when he was still a teenager: everything is possible. If we fight. Oh, there's plenty to say, hard-core man. Forget about that! Something much more noteworthy goes off in your brain! Could it not have been that... The familiar *put put put* of hatred. Below the confusion and rage -- a fit of jamais vu, like yours? The thought passes, more pressing matters take its place... It feels like a *spell*. Below the confusion and rage -- a fit of jamais vu, like yours? The thought passes, more pressing matters take its place... Oh, it's *way* more than that. It's *interesting* time. Forget about the rest. A poet could write a dozen verses and still not begin to capture the profound vexation in that sigh. Clean white light, coming from the windows of a clean cube-shaped office building hidden amidst ruins. A secret... It would be an artistic statement of some kind or another. 'Eclectic' is for pop music with 'indigenous' percussion. *You're* a sartorial maverick. But this suffering -- it must have *some* kind of meaning... A story that will come out of it. Perhaps even a story that you will write yourself? Those theories didn't really hold up in retrospect, did they? Not *really*. It's just stylization. The way they drew eyes -- it's not a zoological drawing. Gravity anomaly? Diggin' it. Diggin' this para-scientific stuff right here. Willow people? Not at *all*. Explain himself? As if... explaining some kind of *work*? Some kind of avant-garde work way ahead of its time? Well played. *No one* saw that coming. She doesn't know whether to be glad because Cuno's finally convinced of the lameness... or *more* worried, because of his continued use of the first-person singular. Cuno is Cuno. Not *I*. There's a tug-of-war over the name of his fantastical city. It's almost too big for his imagination. *Lame...* That rings some bells... Could this be connected to Night City -- a.k.a. the *City of Rage*? The lieutenant doesn't actually look like a rock and roll enthusiast. You're probably right. The others are only there for filler -- to make the gun thing *pop*. Terrarium? He's really trying to salvage something out of it. This particular brand of humour he has... it makes for a fine distraction. It *is* rather interesting to tell people things about each other isn't it? It was nice telling him about her right now... Metaphor. It's always metaphor. The silence of god? Sorry... Oh no, it's one of those 'show, don't tell' things, isn't it? Oh no, it's one of those 'show, don't tell' things, isn't it? 'Subtle' like the aesthetic cacophony the two of you are making right now? Look at this shit. The visual fields make no sense. You're like a pair of white socks in brown sandals right now. It's disgusting. You're in a perfectly balanced system, where neither you nor the pale is able to get the upper hand. This could go on forever.