OPEN IT. ALL PARCELS MUST PASS THROUGH PROCEDURAL SCREENING AND CUSTOMS. JUST IN CASE.

It's quiet. No activity behind the door. Once open, you should be in the clear.

The keypad sends its input to a series of relays inside the door. If the input is right, solenoids pull the bolts open.

Assuming an eight-digit combination, you're looking at a hundred million possibilities. Rounded up by one.

An intricate configuration that reminds you of the night sky.

There is only one security system that uses that setup, the Abwehr-Pastorius Mk. III. A legendary keypad and lock duo.

A vulnerability leaked to the Opera in 87, courtesy of a disgruntled engineer who had defected to the People's Republic.

A cheat? There lies the scoundrel's way. No thrill in that, no panache!

There's something about stars and what it says about this type of lock, but it doesn't quite come to you.

Crack the code.

You remember the first batches of number, at least. The right combination must be among what's left.

Your knees could go at any second, the elation's that strong.

Numbers... Blurry... Must try everything again.

You roughly remember where you stopped last time. Whatever's left, you'll have to try all over.

But what's the order? And there's four digits. Which number's repeated? You're not just going to guess, right?

Exploit the lock's vulnerability.

Glossy metal finish, no hint of rust or weathering.

No prey here -- only a challenge. Your teeth chatter from the thrill.

Confetti floats from above, a rainbow of crepe paper falling around your head and shoulders.

Surely you weren't anticipating otherwise? That's ghost 'fetti.

RIGHTEOUSNESS ALWAYS SPILLS FROM THE SOLDIERS OF THE PEOPLE, NO MATTER HOW DIMINUTIVE.

A Pocket Combatant -- a type of miniature army which reached its sales height in the 50s. Recalled, discontinued, sued into oblivion when the figures were found to be made of lead.

You hear a splat, followed by a man's yell. A woman cheers, 'Ectoplasm!'

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

You are outnumbered by ghosts.

Ghosts! They're ghosts!

Tune in to the building's frequency.

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

THE ENGINEERING HAS EMBRACED PERPETUAL REVOLUTION.

The earth is alive; it breathes and shifts in its sleep. Concrete does not. The building is going to collapse.

Vertiginous patterns of broken tile swirl below you. Your head swims.

You hear a few chords on a guitar, just for a moment.

For a second you think you hear someone singing behind you, but there is nobody there.

For a split second, you're sure you can hear someone strumming a bass guitar.

But be warned: You may have to read the whole thing.

You are preparing to strike the cruelest blow.

The title jars a memory -- HOLOCENE engrossed within its pages, maybe the only time he was oblivious to the world.

He keeps his hands loose, but he's coiled within, like a mauled animal.

He's... Lichgäng?

Your mind rebels at the thought. Zero out this uncanny monster.

A barracks full of small boys, huddled together on a cold floor. An older man reads aloud from a worn and dogeared book. His words echo off the low, tin ceiling.

Keep your gun close.

Enough preamble. You're here for one thing only.

You should be armed right now. This was a mistake.

You mark the features. The imperious nose. The fleshy cheeks.

The same 'heroes' who dropped Berrion bombs on the Tenantries of St. Ulwen.

PUT THIS FASCIST ROADER IN THE GROUND.

Checks