"I wouldn't lay bets against you hearing it, one day," Crowley says, holding his wineglass a careful distance - shielding it, almost - from the few glimmering flakes of glitter still swirling about, heedless of gravity in the service of a greater narrative purpose.

"You'll have to come tell me what it's like."

If you had to choose, you'd say he was speaking to Ingress.

Probably.