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His eyes, while not quite lighting up, definitely kindle at the prospect.

Rain splatters off the plastic sheets covering the notices.

Fun hating, authoritarian, universally loathed. Even if you didn't know her address was under Kavanaugh, you would recognize Eszti from a mile away.

Fun hating, inappropriately authoritative, loathed. That's Eszti.

A life sacrificed on the altar of her cover.

Officious. Disliked. This is Eszti. Close, somewhere beneath.

The resident list you saw by the door may prove more revealing now.

Precisely where an artist's signature would go.

Let queen bitch have it!

You suspect your apology will bounce, inert, off the dead walls of her heart.

That's not a real apology -- it's an insignificant scrawl on a pre-vandalised note.

Objectively true. She is all but a professional narc.

Juvenile, yes. Still makes you feel good.

A colossal operational fumble. There are about three people in this whole city who know her by her cryptonym, and only one who would leave this message.

But someday -- maybe very soon -- CASCADE will be 'NEVER 4 EVER'.

Cryptonym on full display on a public noticeboard. Bravo, operant. Potentially a match-ending 'own goal'.

Above your head, seagulls wheel and dive.

The inverse flash of sudden blackness--

An instant of sheer confusion before the panic can kick in--

You have just been attacked by unknown assailants at the bottom of this silo.

On the floor, belly-down. Diaphragm convulsed by the blow, unable to breathe.

This is a robbery, not an assassination.

No one else knows about the disc, how could your attacker be looking for it?

Hold on. That sound... was that crinkling paper?

It's the metal stripper. The one who urged you to come down here.

She's getting up. After her.

A rustle of paper and clanging metal as your attacker flees up the stairs.

Either she can see in dark, or she's got every inch of the terrain memorised.

Alright gäng, just breathe. Let's take a moment to gather ourselves.

Body: uninjured, if somewhat rattled.

Robbery attempt: foiled.

Mind: profoundly confused.

Body: no major injuries, though you've sustained quite a beating.

Dignity: in tatters.

Operant status: ready to shuffle your way back into cold storage.

There are no casual muggings in an abandoned rocket silo. She came down here looking specifically for you, and for something specific on you.

You should return to the surface, operant. You have questions that need answering.

A deranged fan... or a representative.

Suddenly it's abundantly obvious who the thief was.

There are no common muggers at the bottom of abandoned rocket silos. This was targeted.

She knew you had it on you, and was looking for one thing only.

Something slippery and muscular squirms uneasily in your gut.

You have been too public in who you talk to about an artefact that effectively zeroed out a fellow Operant, even if it has been rendered useless.

She's getting up. After her.

You are about to discover what happens to people who go silo exploring on their own.

Putrid sea-food breath, warm on your nape and in your ear.

The tendrils of a watery, alien intelligence.

THE RESILIENCE OF A CREATURE BRED FOR SPACE EXPLORATION.

That sounded very un-dolphin-like.

Vacuum-sealed, your airways convulse feebly.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 111 of 184