The Editor-in-Chief's desk is somewhat orderly. A few notebooks and proofs, a terminal, and a collection of pens -- laid out side by side.

The Editor-in-Chief's desk is somewhat orderly. A few notebooks and proofs, a terminal, and a collection of pens -- laid out side by side.

Among them, a luscious fountain pen glints in the artificial light.

Resin cabochon and palladium finish. Worth several hundred sols.

"Nice pen."

"Oh, yes." She smiles, knowing the exact pen in question. "Thank you. It was a gift."

She's got pens to spare -- we don't. Let's nick it.

"I'd be crushed if someone gave me stationery."

"Our sponsor knows I'm quite fond of it, actually."

The Trust merely recognising her hard work. Nothing unsavoury here, as far as she's concerned.

Pleasantries exchanged. Time to move on, operant.

OF COURSE. SNAKE PEOPLE HAVE NO NEED OF LUXURY PENS, WHAT WITH THE LACK OF LIMBS.

Her sponsor... the Civilisation Trust. The blank space there gnaws away at you.

"Who is your sponsor?"

"Oh yes. The Civilisation Trust has long supported our work." She nods.

Forget the pen. Talk to this woman and inquire about this 'Trust'.

"A gift? What was the occasion?"

"The Review's sixth anniversary. Our sponsor is supportive of the work being done here."

"Cool. Can I borrow it for a bit?"

"Absolutely not."

'Borrow' the luscious pen.

First, a distraction. Keep her gaze away from the desk.

"Did your colleague also get a pen?"

"Oh." She glances at the younger woman, then leans in. "I'm afraid not."

"How come?"

"Few of those were made, you see." She leans further in, almost talking into your shoulder. "And so..."

Grab first, then cover up. Now.

Go for the pen.

Your hand darts out, a trapdoor spider, and rolls the pen silently off the edge of the desk -- and into your pocket.

"She understands, I'm sure." She nods, her eyes wide.

"I'm sure she does." (Align the other pens.)

With a flick, you slide the remaining pens into alignment. No gap remains; only the illusion of order.

"Let's move on, yes? Wouldn't want to ruffle any feathers." She nods again, leans away, and affects a wide smile. "Anyhow."

She will notice the missing pen in four days, but never once suspect you.

"Ah, that's a shame. Maybe next time."

(Lower your voice.) "Didn't deserve it, did she?"

If you move incredibly slowly, so slowly as to be imperceptible, there will be no movement for her eye to follow.

Take a fraction of a step closer.

Your feet shuffle forward on the linoleum floor.

Hover your hand over the pen.

Your atoms are kissing...

"Is everything all right, there?"

"Just stretching my hand. On account of all the writing I do."

"It's good to keep the tendons limber." She eyes you suspiciously. "Perhaps you'd prefer to do so somewhere else, though?"

You are forced to retreat, palm empty.

"This is how I lean. It's normal of me, to lean like this."

"Could you admire it from a little further back?" She eyes you suspiciously. "You're casting a shadow."

"I'm appropriating this whole desk for The People's usage."

"I am people, and I am using it. Step back, please."

Touch the pen with just your fingertips.

Still... stiller even... don't breathe...

Hold.

You can feel the cool, high-quality metal of the barrel under your skin, the heft of the writing implement, filled with top-shelf ink.

Start sliding the pen back towards you.

The metal barrel makes a small sound as it rolls across the desktop.

Dart your hand out and grab it.

Like a flicker of electricity, an adder striking, you attack!

Put your hand on the edge of the desk.

The wood is solid under your hand, the surface smooth with sealant.

Inhale strongly in the direction of the pen.

Even with the persuasion of the oscillating fan nearby, your breath is not strong enough in concert with it to bring the pen towards you.

Turn away. [Leave.]

The desk remains undisturbed.