DROPPED COIN — The tarnish and grime of the street can't quite hide the glitter of silver. Cash! Visions of all the things cash can buy you bloom in your mind. Food. Shelter. Sweet, sweet alcohol. Other things, that swim half-shadowed beneath the lights but loom large in your subconscious.

YOU — Pick up coin.

INTERFACING [Trivial: Failure] — Hmm. The coin is there, your hand is there, and yet—you cannot seem to quite connect the one with the other. The coin fumbles from your sausage-fingers to continue lying in the street, its glitter now closer to an insouciant wink. You mutter an imprecation before reaching again, only for your fingers to once again fail to grasp it, causing your words to increase in volume.

YOU — "Goddamn piece of mother-loving—"

INTERFACING — Your illiquid syllables of frustration have attracted the attention of the lieutenant. He adjusts his glasses slightly, taking in the tableau. "Harry—"

YOU — "—worthless sonuva—"

KIM — "Harry!"

INTERFACING — You look up.

KIM — "It's glued to the street."