Connie loved meeting new people for the simple reason that, as a pathological liar, she never had to tell anyone that she was a pathological liar. This new person was some wiry, topless, shivering granddad, the kind of guy that got confused and ended up sending money to imaginary princes. He had an innocent doey-eyedness about him that reminded her of her dad. Ugh.

If Connie was going to be a big player in this 'democratisation of reality', as the letter on her fridge had put it, she'd have to suck it up and go full-on charm offensive. She took him back up that weird set of marble slabs to her flat and typed in the PIN to her automatic door magnanimously.

He left his ax outside.

"So this is chez-moi," she said. "Ain't much, mind you, but it's mine."

Connie never looked at her flat when she had visitors. She much preferred to look at their faces.

This guy's eyes widened, and he smiled like a stupid donkey. "Wow, this is all yours, is it? Fantastic."

"Yeah, come on in! I work pretty hard for it." She laughed. Mostly, the credit cards worked for it, but taking out new ones could charitably be interpreted as a job in itself. She caught herself frowning, then quickly wiped the look off her face. Only happy thoughts for Connie today. After all, this experiment thing meant she didn't have to pull a twelve hour shift tonight.

She snapped back to reality and followed the guy into her studio penthouse, waiting for him to rush over to the floor-length windows and praise her endlessly. That was always the best bit, and made her feel like she was really somebody.

See, her flat had a higher ceiling than every hotel room she'd ever checked into. A system piped the soft scent of lavender throughout the ducts. She'd painted a roadmap of Barden along an entire wall, from memory no less. Instead of being astonished by any of this, however, the grandad sauntered over to the kitchenette and filled up her kettle.

"Huh?" she said. "What are you up to?"

"Please, go and make yourself comfortable. I'm your guest, so let me do this to thank you for having me over, okay?"

"No, grand-- uh, what's your name, sorry?"

He flicked the kettle on, took off his muddy gloves, then extended a hand.

"It's Tarquin. Please--"

"Connie." She shook his hand, inwardly wincing after noticing that his nails had been bitten down to stubs.

"Please, Connie, it would be an absolute pleasure to make you coffee. I wouldn't feel right as a guest otherwise. Oh, that's okay by you, isn't it? I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"

"Nah." She watched the kettle boil. Damn it, the thing was caked in limescale to the point of no longer being shiny. That shouldn’t have got past her — she’d been working way too many hours recently, even though it had only resulted from a logical succession of needing to add on an extra hour every week to keep up with the outgoings.

Easy come, easy go, she guessed.

"What's wrong?" He smiled in a way that he probably thought looked warm.

"Uh... I just usually slap a pod into the ExPressoMaker over there." She gestured to the counter in an offhanded fashion, as if she didn't really care either way. She figured that was how super rich people who could actually afford to put pods into their ExPressoMaker gestured.

"Oh, look, the number's on your hand now," said Tarquin.

It read 2629.

 "Yeah... Mad... Probably more of that 'democratisation of reality' stuff. Fancy us lot being picked for a government trial, eh?" Connie frowned. Maybe she just wasn't flaunting hard enough in front of him. He hadn't even mentioned her designer shirt.

Spooning some instant coffee into a pair of dishwashed cups while raising his voice above the din of the kettle, he said, "Did I hear that right? Democratisation of reality?"

"Check my fridge!"

That was sure to prompt a comment. Her fridge was a top of the line model, and it was plastered in racy photos of her posing with her black cab — what could she say, she'd done a calendar once. But Tarquin went straight to the note and read it. Then he had to catch his balance on this counter, and for a time he stood there just clutching his heart.

CONSTANCE, YOU ARE THREE OF NINE. PLEASE SHARE THE FOLLOWING KNOWLEDGE WITH TEAM SHAME.

THE DEMOCRATISATION OF REALITY:

IF ALL NINE AGREE ON A PREMISE, THEY MAY VOTE TO PERMANENTLY ALTER REALITY.

"Oh my god," he said. "This changes everything, doesn't it?"

The kettle boiled, and clicked.

She went to look out the window, hoping to draw him over, and mumbled, "You mean you didn't know?"

"Thank you very much for having me," he said, pouring and then instantly downing his cup of coffee. Steam came from his mouth as he spoke. "But we need to find the others now, don't you think?"

That was the last straw. The plan had been to charm them one at a time, in private -- no way was she letting this geezer get away from her. She dragged him by the hand to the white leather sofa and plopped him down, even though it would take forever to get the mud off it.

"Nah, man," she said. "Take a few deep breaths, or something. Make yourself at home. Geez, I can see your heart beating out your chest. Let me get you a jacket."

He pushed himself onto his feet.

"I'll take the jacket, Connie, but we don't have any time to waste, do we? The number's nearly at 3,000."

"What does the number matter? We can just change it later. Chill, we've got all the time in the world."

He froze, despite the coffee racing around his body.

"You don't know, do you," he murmured. “No wonder you’re so bloody calm.”

"Huh?" She passed him a faux-fur coat. It barely fit him, but at least it spared her the sight of old man nipples.

"I don't know how to say this," he said.

She just stared at him until he continued. The guy looked like age itself.

He said, "Since you got here, have you tried calling anyone?"