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She's wearing rain boots. Odd choice for an office job, unless…

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She's wearing rain boots. Odd choice for an office job, unless she spends a lot of time in that secure basement.

Wait, that means she belongs to EMTERR. She is your enemy.

An odd smile -- there's something insincere about this woman.

She doesn't look that young.

Somewhere in subterranean Novessa, an Opera controller's nose twitches.

She was placed here by the sponsor -- The Civilisation Trust -- that means she belongs to EMTERR.

And that Ile-de-Söze is a human trafficking destination. An EMTERR labour colony.

She was placed here by the sponsor -- The Civilisation Trust -- that means she belongs to EMTERR.

On a neolithic tundra, a woman in skins stalks an aurochs. She trails behind it, leisurely, determined. The huge ungulate's knees buckle with each laboured step. She'll strike when the animal can't run anymore.

The hunt will last three days.

The word 'mostly' in that sentence seems to be hiding something.

A risky place to keep important documents. You wouldn't want anything down there unless you had something to hide.

A successful poem submission might be the simplest way of doing it.

There's always the dangerous option. Express delivery.

For something sneakier, you could try the route via the waterlock you drained...

For something more secretive, that little girl mentioned a door in the waterlock...

Or you could case the rest of the building to see if there's an alternative way down there.

Forget that shitty Opera-assigned pen. You've got an editor's pen now!

A ripe opportunity to see how this new editor's pen glides on the page.

These people love words. Use them to find out what it will take to get them to open it for you.

You cannot weigh a soul with guidelines.

GOOD, THIS 'POETRY' HAS RULES AND DOCUMENTS.

One she can't bring herself to answer.

A spark of annoyance flashes into her expression of serene affability.

What else is down there?

And who else?

A plucky literary aspirant, grinding away experience in the hallowed hall of art! Adorable.

THE SUB-BOSS OF WORDS. SEE HOW SHE FLAUNTS THE RED PEN OF REDACTION?

Dilated pupils. Into you.

She tries to flutter her eyelashes, flirtatious and clumsy.

She nods at the other woman in the room with an air of admiration.

That means she'll remember you, too.

That was happening anyway after the way you insulted her voice.

Hopefully for the right reasons.

Heard? Sure, with her own ears, when she picked up the receiver.

She's wearing wading boots. Odd choice for an office job, unless she spends a lot of time in that secure basement.

She's wearing rain boots. Odd choice for an office job, unless… - ZERO PARADES Checks