Crawford drives by rows of garish neon American fast-food signs, recognizable logos surrounded by Japanese; advertisments familiar yet strange, obvious in intent but illegible at first glance. He pushes his glasses up and ignores them.
At a market the sense of alienation returns. Jars, bottles, boxes; labels requiring translation, bought with alien paper, denominations clear but value mentally adjusted.
Entering their quarters Crawford pauses, observing: Farfarello is bound to a kitchen chair, Schuldig lounges across the sofa and Nagi sits at the computer. Everyone, everything is as it should be. Back turned, locking the door, he allows himself a smile.