Actually, you are not even a detective, you are just doing a traineeship in some suspicious detective agency. And, truth be told, you are not being liked by bosses. You think that the reason for this antipathy is the form of your head: it is too round. But that is not the point. The point is: you stink of death and defeat. Why are you even here? Well, there were some reasons, probably, but now they are of no significance. There is a city and you have to find the truth, this is everything you know. Unimaginably pretentious technology called “Portable Station” finds necessary information for you by extracting particles of aura from landscapes and snatches of random conversations. Wherever you look, you see luminous boxes and priests wrapped in some black sheets; going to slow you take the risk of becoming an object of aggression for some cultist mobsters, but is the only possible way to concentrate. To find the truth. To reveal the secrets of Armageddopolis.
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