Under the gloom of streetlights I wandered Footscray, seeking the streets of PC bangs, the refugees, the engine room of the diaspora economy, racks of aloe drinks and snacknuts. Beneath a giant carpark I found an alleyway arcade of fried pork stalls and tube stations, instant access, newband booths, the works. Just as you’d described it. I mean, I’d proofread your application. Research into the thriving street level Internet cultures … exploring concepts of transmigration, as a means of cultural exchange. Who knew what that meant. Still, you didn’t seem all that surprised when that letter came for you, informing you of a positive outcome, the notification itself perhaps even more significant than the amount of money which had, like my own budget, come completely off the top of your head. The equivalent of three months hacking, above street level anyway. You began sharpening your Hangul, and I my Mandarin. Then, of course, came the resumption of hostilities, and the overseas draft. All accounts, like our plans, frozen.