[It's some fabulously obscene hour of the morning when Erik bullies into life fires up his network gadget and sets it on the counter in his kitchen to use as an impromptu webcam. His kitchen and living room are attached, so through the monitor one can see not only the front window with its curtains open, but the viva-la-whathehell going on below it.

Erik himself is leaning against the window and smoking, dressed from the day before like he hasn't been to sleep, and contemplating the unfolding scene with acerbic dispassion.]

Your City suffers from a poorly organized case of Revolution, it appears. [Capital letter audible.] Are we soldiering bravely on toward anything in particular, or have we lost one too many games of Risk?

[He smokes. Acerbically, or one of those other synonyms for 'dry' his typist is running through like Kleenex.]

Circumstances being what they are, this does strike me as the ideal time to mention I'm advertising my services as a locksmith. A profession coincidentally also often dealing with securities.

[Wouldn't it be comically inaccurate if this gave anybody the impression Erik was against bloody revolution as a means of affecting change.]

[No doubt by this point the City is overwhelmingly used to what appear to be lost idiots appearing in their midst, and everyone is very, very, tired of giving the same spiel. 'No, you can't leave, no, no one has any real idea what's going on, yes, that Clock is a right bastard, isn't it?'

Etc.

So fortunately the man - tall even though he's sitting down, wearing an air of vague menace, too many teeth in his mouth - who appears in the video monitor has questions which require none of these answers. Erik has what could probably be called a severe psychological problem with displaying any kind of active weakness, and looking out of his depth certainly qualifies. By the time he deigns to contact the Network he's gathered some idea of what's happened to him (which he's not so blase as to accept as normal, but then again the last couple of weeks have included women who can turn into living diamond, hauling submarines ass over tea kettle out of the water, and a gentleman who bears a marked resemblance to Goethe's idea of Satan) and figured out at least the basics of the helpful device with which he's been outfitted. Incidentally he's holding this video conference in what appears to be one of the city's many coffee shops, imbibing a cup of something approximately the consistency of pitch.

He speaks with no clearly discernible accent, although those with the correctly trained ear will observe a melting pot of Europeanness in there: Germany by way of everywhere. EXCEPT IRELAND]

So this is the future.
( Close enough for horseshoes, hand grenades and government work, anyway. )