Massimo Diap'leptico Rampposz's office. That was the word that described what it was. It was seen that way, just like he was, he thought, out the eyes of ten now, Cyclops.

“Take a seat, Pry.” - The green Sly – not literally: you know, inexperienced; unseasoned - sat next Pheel Cazzo.

He looked at Pry. Somehow he was a lot less anonymous than last he'd seen him. Sitting there. Waiting. Wondering what he saw, in terms of what Massimo really was; or who he was, or what he looked like. He would like to know that. - But it wasn't just that. He'd taken on the full mode, if you wanted to be grandiose about it, in terms, in superannuated terms, of his having announced this thing, being the annunciator, and the Cyclopean, if he could say that, link between, if you wanted to be grandiose about it, Shensh, the quest/the story/the actual dream - that generated that fuel for - and Old Works. And what that definitionally connected to facilitating... But he only explained all this in his own head to himself 10,000 times a day as if it was so unnatural a state of affairs he had to, or else he couldn't even, as information, retain it.

But Pry wasn't 900 years old or anything, he was still Pry-Boak and [cL^YoP] and you could say as well, they were all [cL^YoP]. At least that. That was their title. That was their race. He'd like to talk to Pry without the massive head here and he looked at him.

The response his eyes got back answered him with something like understanding; understanding necessitating knowledge. In terms of where he was in terms of understanding Pry-Boak [cL^YoP], on perhaps a spiritual level - and this was weird - even beyond his being now his new annunciator - a very weird thing to be experiencing sitting next a Cyclops. So he wondered why this was, at all, as well.

“- That's exactly what I was in Theust for. Numbers.”

“What did they say? Who's killing Slys?”

“That's why we have our dear friend,” he searched in vein for his name... eventually, “Pry-Boak [cL^YoP]; they call him [cL^YoP], his title, he's our friend here,” glancing between the gaps in the cells that constituted him: straight through him.

“They said, and this is what they said. You understand they live there in that city,” this was still Massimo talking. Massimo was his surname even if that was at the front of his name there; it was polite to call him Massimo, even though that was at the front of the list of his names because despite this it was in fact his surname.

You recall he has titles. Recall also that I am your narrator, Pry-Boak [cL^YoP]; it's me, you see, all through this - or really only the part that sees everything. That part of me. Pry. Is who narrates this. First/third, in some confusing overlap, person. It's not my personality, exactly, though perhaps we can argue that - it's a way of seeing the world, that - accurately I'd attest, and it's this I'm narrating. To you. Whoever you are... My friend.

“That city there that they have – is it underground?” This was addressed to me. I'm saying Pry-Boak [cL^YoP].

He didn't wait for a response. In the snow, in the waste, underground, or not, maybe half so – when you're beneath that sky, or the rock, “who can really tell? - Anyway you've seen the Ascensor, the domes, and the tunnels down -”

Pheel had seen nothing.