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You're not just flipping through records. You're going deeper into Petre's Museum of Loathing.

On the cover, the halo of a lunar eclipse frames the silhouette of a young woman, her outline distorted by the jagged edges of the costume she wears.

Swirling maelstroms of darkness adorn the album cover, intricate but hardly-visible patterns of black on slightly-darker-black.

The band logo is an illegible scrawl allegedly composed of letters in a human script.

Its condition is pristine, as though it were pressed yesterday -- for us, and us alone.

This is one pissed off monkey. You may not have the edge like last time...

HARD CUT to his tiny face. CRASH ZOOM -- his golden eyes flash.

He pulls at his ears, deranged with joy.

WHY DOES THE REACTIONARY SPEAK IN AUTHORITATIVE TONES? IS HE INSECURE IN HIS MESSAGE? LAUGHABLE.

The monkey descends into a series of gnashing shrieks and limb spasming in excitement and outrage at your quest.

Okay, worst-case scenario you just trade comatose guy for monkey loot and fuck off. Must be some sick gadgets in that pile.

We're not trading gäng for loot!

You're talking to a monkey. You're going to have to ask specific questions if you want helpful answers.

That was a terrible apology, Hershel. Listen to the poor thing! Do it properly, restore his heinous pomposity.

Dock thief. Monkey bandit.

Yes! Monkey! Yes!!

Broken cages everywhere, this could be an escapee.

The GM was right, there really is a monkey in here -- and it's stood on a pile of stolen junk. It must be the dock thief.

It is standing on what looks like a pile of stolen goods.

Is this the dock thief?

The wall is disturbingly moist. Like fresh morning dew on a tree trunk, but evil.

More giggles in the hallway, the sound of footsteps running away.

Don't think yet. Just solve.

Impossible. Pack runner. Close blood.

A paragraph from his red folder flashes redder across your mind: '... POSSESSING A MONSTROUS INTELLIGENCE THAT RESTS ON HALLUCINATORY LOGICAL CONSTRUCTION.'

But definitely more ominous.

'MALA FIDE': Bad faith, standard espionage parlance for contaminated, compromised or treacherous.

'MALA FIDE'... Bad faith. A betrayer in your midst.

The beauty of ciphers.

Eerily familiar now. The text almost recites itself.

You and HOLOCENE the loving parents-in-waiting.

GAUNTLET HAS HIT THE GROUND. CASCADE IS NOTHING IF SHE IS NOT BRUTE-FORCE.

The cipher wavers like a mirage -- a madman's shopping list, equal parts banality and wonder.

No pattern discernible.

Gibberish. The fact that it starts with a one digit number precludes this possibility.

You'd have to know how to use a map for this to be effective.

A piece of paper and a notebook is all you need to go insane.

Prepare body and mind for hours of fun.

Through it a shadow text is threaded, one which may rise to legibility at any moment.

THE RABID DOG THAT DEFECATES THEN RECONSUMES.

Rumour has it that an old vending machine in Lower Viudas once sold anonymous murder confessions to anyone willing to pay ten sol.

YOU WERE WARNED. THE DEVELOPED WORLD WILL HAPPILY UNBURDEN YOU OF YOUR CURRENCY IN EXCHANGE FOR SERVICES NEVER RENDERED.

An old lesson, hard-learned: in the developed world, money is always the way forward.

THE ENEMY IS DISMANTLING YOU, NERVE BY NERVE.

Delicious scarcity. Obtain.

Are you 'special edition' enough to drink it? Gauntlet thuds against ground.

2,903 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 22 of 59