Alfredo Apostol quietly places the document folder on his side of the table. At least – Alfred surmises – on the table, the odds of losing the written report inside the folder looks dim. And now with the xenobots circulating in his system, he understands he merely has to let go and to accept that any moment from now it shall be taking over his body. And mind.
Since, with Alfred before, always, things have their way of stubbornly trying to lose themselves; more so with people who always try to get stubbornly intoxicated. Money, a set of keys, perhaps.
Many things. Even a reputation or two, in a way.
For Alfred, it appears he could be extremely gratified to reach this certain level of intoxicating inevitability. At least, Angelo del Mundo – his province mate as well as close friend since
