Which, at the moment, happens to be grunting and wrestling with eighty-plus kilos of ordnance in a wooden crate apparently tailor-made to send stiletto-sized slivers right through the palms and fingers of my work gloves. The slag holding up the other end of my crate—Fraser, a malnourished ork with ratty dreadlocks—doesn’t seem to mind, but mainly because he’s under the wire. His midbrain is constantly hooked to a signal from a simsense deck, but it’s one set for the lowest possible intensity. Not enough to cut him off entirely from reality, but definitely enough to color his every perception of the real world. Hell, for all I know, the same slivers that are driving me crazy could be making his hands feel like he’s got a good hold on Honey Brighton’s luscious yams.