The container is still overfull with rubbish.

The container is still overfull with rubbish.

Peer inside.

The layers of detritus are many days deep. A whole history of discarded artefacts is piled up in front of you.

This bin is an archive. Search it and you may conjure the recent history of this place.

You feel warmth radiating from the inside. Something in there is fermenting.

This calls for deep urban forensics.

Perform urban forensics on the rubbish.

The archives demand bravery and diligence. The mass before you is divided into three distinct strata. A thorough analysis will require you to explore each.

Where to start?

Your choice.

Skim the topmost strata.

Nothing of note yet. False teeth, a broken bottle, oh -- there's some sol if you want it.

Grab the sol.

You pluck a few coins from the fetid heap. A couple of them are covered in an unknown greasy substance.

Keep it together. Don't think about the chittering infestations thriving in here.

Focus your energy downward.

Various slimy textures slide up your hand as you dip into the dregs. Your fingers graze something sharp -- paper, maybe.

Quickly -- before the sludge reclaims it.

Pull it out.

You catch the object with your fingernails and gingerly lift it out of the rot. It seems to be a small wad of misprinted paper.

Examine the paper.

The machine that printed this was clearly faulty as the words have either smeared across the pages or doubled up to form incomprehensible deep-black runes.

What does it say?

Ỉ̷̮̌̑͋̍͛͑͗̅̈́̽͝f̷̡̢͙̺͉͍̣̙̥̟̮̪͒̑͘ͅ ̸̤̻̄͆́̽̈́̊̇̽̐ͅỷ̸̧̗͌́̐͠ȍ̵̧͍̼̮̎͒̇͋͛̃̈̍ṵ̴̢̡̧̳̭͖̣͕̦̤̖̠̹̝̿̿̾́̀̀̑̚ͅ ̵̢̡̜̪̬̗͙̫̬͖̈́̀͆̌͆̈́̐̌̑̒̈́̉͝a̷̡̲͇̰̠̝͈̙̙̰͇̜̠̱̳̐̇̇͆͌ͅr̸͎̣̺͓͕̹̞͕̦̭͍͓͖̯̘͊̋̾̌e̷̛͔̝̮̺͙͓̣̭̙̺̙̤̩̎͗͗́̏̎̊͂̈͛̍̎̄̕͘͘ͅ ̸̨̣͉̣͎̹͙͖͕̠̭͕̘̪̖̀̇̈͛̏͌̊̓̅͌͑̏̈́͆͘ͅͅi̶͕̹̒̃̅̃͗̓̇̃̈̈́́̀͘̕̕͝͠m̸̠̥̟̈́̐̌̎͌͑͌̊̕͘̕͠m̵̡͓̮̜̹̜͈̖̩̤̭͉̟̳͇̋̊͗̍͒̐͐̒̔̽̋̋̿͘̚ų̶̡̰̞͉̺̿̅̔̀͛n̷̢̥̫̩̻̤͚̄ớ̴̡̜̩̝̝͈̰̹̯͕̯̌̄̇̌͆̈́̿́̕͝c̴̡͎͇̻̻̓̾͗͐̅ǫ̸̺̤͈̜͓̩̩͍̤͚̼̹̙̘̈́̓͋͒̒͂̒̄̂́̉̀̎͂̕̕͠ͅm̶̡̨̼͙̞̩̼̲̈̌̉́̕͠p̶̛̺̝̝̰̙͎͇͔̰͎͉̔̌̋̈́̃͐̌̓̈́̎̋̀͒͂͝r̵̢͇̬̜͂͛̓͒̔̌̇̍̀̏͘͠ͅo̶͕̣̔͛̐̆m̸̧̯̳̮̗̱̺͖̲̗̲͛̆̈́͒̆́̾͛̽̇̚͘̚͜ͅi̴̢̦̟̰̖̗̥̝̹͓̫̞̯̘̗̽͜͝s̶̢̧̪͎͙̻̭̜̮͎͈͝e̵̠̱̭̗͖̥̟̟̗̳̥̜̱̠̰̋͌ͅͅd̴̢̧̧͓̙̱̝̥̼̹̪̮͎̫͚̟̝̑͂̐͑̑̋͑̕͘͘̕͠͝͠ ̵͉͚̭̠̭̩̬̩͖̥̊̑̈͂̀̉͠͝͝y̶͚͚̝̙̮͇͍͇̮͎̳̌͌̃̈́́͂̂̀̓̒͐͒́̈́̍͋͝ȏ̶̢̨͈̹̤͎͚͎̮̱̹͎̎́̏͒̃́̌̄̿͗͘̕͠ű̴̢̨͈̘͈̞̐̍̅͌̑́͐̔̆̓̐̽͠ ̴͖̗͍̩̩͈̉̈́͋̈́̆ͅw̸̧̡̗͉̥̤͉͚̙̦̣̦͙̗̻͌̊ͅi̷̧̨̦͓̣̲̼̫͕̬̖̲̭̽̉͜ĺ̵̼͓͇̮̭̹͈̺͓̻͙͖̜̀̃̀́͂̚͝l̶̡̧͈̬̲̲̩̻̱̲̯͎̺̅̏̐̑̋̉̋̆͛͌̃̒͘͠͝ ̶̢͈̼̰̼͌͋͛͂́̅̅͆̕͜͝n̴̡̧̺̰͍̲̥̠̺̞̙͒͘͜è̷̛̩͍̔̂̇̓̌͊̈́̈̒̕͠ͅę̴͍̰̰̦̼̦̹͔̭͌́͐̅͛̅͌͂̂̐̃͝d̷̨̢̛͓̙̹̬͕̬̣͍̙̰̝͎̒̇̋̑̂̀͂̒͘͘͝ ̷̨̡̢̫͉̝̞̞͉͔̗̦̋̄̏̌̉̇̂̈́̀͘t̶̛̘̩̖̭̅̀͌͗̈́͆͂̍̓͆̈́͌͗̽͊͠o̸̤͔̓̀̃̚͝ ̶̨̧̡̼͇͚̩̟̦̬̣̙͈͒͂̈́̂͐́͋̓̇͋͊̚͝͝b̷̡͈̠̻̻͕̮̹̩̹̪̠̰̙̾̾̕ê̴̠̼̱̰̻̥̰̥͎̫̠̦͙͕͇ͅ ̷̢̩͕͉̤͖̾̍̒̅̈́̓̿̈̃͑͝͠c̸̢̡̳͖̪̼̩̳͈̙͈̳̣̯̀̓̅̍̂ą̴̛̼͈̃̆̈́̎̌́͆̂̈́͝ͅř̴̢̧̨̛̖̪̘͕̗̣͓̜͇̭̗̖͌̋̆̄͋͑̓͆́̇͋͘̕̚e̵̛̲͈̰̹̙̟̹̱̖̠̭̦͐̅̽̐̑̽̆͛̈́ͅf̴̨̡͎͉̪̳̪̙̳̤̃̎̉̒̆̕̕͝͠u̶̡̧̡͈̠̺̜̣̲̯̮͑͐̌̓̎̔́̀̚͝ͅͅͅl̴͈̺̫̟̠͓̄̈́̍̽̑͝ͅ

Demonically compromised. A machine's desperate cry for help.

The unfortunate death rattle of a burnt-out operant. (Salute.)

The paper wad has nothing else to report. It exists only as a reminder to clean your printer heads.

With that, your forensic study may be considered complete.

Deeper. There are more strata to go.

Looks like a cipher meant for electronic eyes. So they're talking to each other now...

Whatever broken thing made this should be replaced immediately.

There is beauty to be found even in errors.

Let it go.

It dissolves back into the warm muck, never to be glimpsed by human eyes again.

Before you can grab it, it dissolves back into the warm muck, never to be glimpsed by human eyes again.

This is how you imagine the insides of an eyeball would feel.

Explore the middle strata.

You pick carefully through the warm middle strata until you bump against a papery wad.

Expired coffee, greasy condiment residue. Typewriter ink. Chemically processed wood pulp.

Open it and read what's inside.

'...two for yes, one for no, the echo in the room / a gasp without breath / chin up, gaze fixed on the radiant tomorrow / the dead man's parade marches past and I am left behind...'

A decent imitation of Cengiz Balik's style of free verse, but they could have gone harder with the adverbs.

A scrawl of red ink above the typed words: 'We thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, at this time The Noscorrentes Review will not be moving forward...'

They're rejecting poets left, right, and centre.

A history of failure at your very fingertips.

'The Noscorrentes Review'... the poetry magazine.

A highly discerning one, judging from the physical evidence.

This rejected submission would imply that their offices are nearby -- perhaps the building next to you.

'The Noscorrentes Review.' Some sort of literary magazine?

Plumb the depths of the bottom strata.

You've now penetrated to the darkest and wettest layer. A metallic thud tells you that you've reached the bottom of the bin.

Scrape the foundation.

Your fingers get to work. However, the rancid smell threatens to suffocate you.

The bitter scent of rotting vegetable matter fills your nasal cavities. Saliva pools in the corners of your mouth.

The gas makes your mind swim.

Luckily, your diligence is not in vain: Your fingers catch on something hard in the furthest corner of the sludge pile.

Feel for its edges.

Rounded for the most part. There are some sharper lines at the extremities as well as some flat surfaces.

Extract the object.

It's a pair of grimy glasses: large black frames, and what must be the thickest prescription lenses available.

Wait, those glasses...

The missing vendor. These are the glasses he was wearing in the photo his daughter showed you.

Alternative wording

The missing vendor. These are the glasses he was wearing in the photo Malen showed you.

Alternative wording

The missing vendor. These are the glasses he was wearing in the photo his daughter showed you.

Alternative wording

The missing man. These are the glasses he was wearing in the photo the party supplies vendor showed you.

I should let her know.

You wonder how the glasses ended up here -- but only for a moment. Between this, and the isolated building's exterior...

So the missing vendor is mixed up in this secret jail too.

As if you needed any additional confirmation that you're in the right place.

The poetry magazine -- it's a front for the secret jail.

This must be the secret jail...

The poetry magazine over there...

Warrants a much closer look.

That building above the water-lock...

How did these end up here?

This neighbourhood isn't residential. There's no foot traffic to speak of. Meaning they were unlikely discarded here by accident...

Leaving one possibility, too serious to ignore.

A dread certainty sinks in.

The thickness of these lenses stand out. You've never seen those glasses before.

Whoever is missing these would be almost blind without them.

Bile lurches at the back of your throat. Burning.

Let's take a break from urban forensics. (Step back.)

You extricate yourself from the rubbish.

You dive in again and return once more to the cesspool of dark fantasy. What path will you take this time to fill your journal, adventurer?

Plough your arm into the carcass fields.

Corpses damp with blood line the dirt path you walk. Even the trees reaching out from the furrowed fields are dead and gnarled.

Onward.

The bodies multiply and get more decayed the further you go. Soon, you can no longer see the humanity that was once in them.

Piles of sickening flesh washing into each other. The ultimate gäng merge.

Keep marching.

You are now wading through a pungent mire of stringy sinew. Stomach acid and melted muscle drags at your legs until you can walk no more.

But not all is lost. The journey has won you a treasure from deep inside the trash container: it's a huge amount of plastic cutlery and paper plates!

The only places that would need such a high volume of cheap tableware are schools and prisons.

An unusual find in this part of the city.

Most likely a faulty order that came in through the docks, disposed of nearby. Any other explanation quickly becomes a lot more mysterious.

You have reached the end of this path. Everything has been recorded and will be stored within your inner archives.

What a waste of time.

That's enough. (Pull yourself out.)

Bits of waste rise up with you as you land on your feet and back into the reality of the outside.

Finger the vermin lair.

A tight cavern opens before you. Wretched squeaks echo across the stone walls and reach your ears from the distance.

Squeeze through into the deeper cavern.

Rocks scratch and cut your arms and legs as you push through the gap. Eventually, you emerge into much larger space where the walls crawl with a throng of scabby rats.

You must not show fear. Any sign of it and they will swamp you with their diseased mass.

Be bold.

You step into the middle of the room, a hundred rats scatter up the walls to get away from you. One hangs directly above, unable to hold any longer, and falls -- triggering your doom.

Leave the vermin of your fantasy behind and focus instead on the trophy you have earned from the trash container: it's a small collection of lacerated zip-cuffs!

Typically used by enforcers as an easy way to physically restrain threats or detainees.

This is a quite a few people getting arrested...

What's stranger is having all the cuffs dumped in this single bin. Officials usually have a more ethical waste management procedure.

Meaning they may not be for legal use. Criminal or at least non-ethical force may be behind these.

Junk upon junk.

Crawl your hand through the pustulous tunnels.

Boils burst with turgid liquid at every angle inside the passageway. There is no light except the one you hold.

Light the path forward.

You hold your lantern forward and attempt to dodge the green fluids that jet from the walls. Unfortunately, it is impossible, and soon you are covered head to toe.

The slime stings your bare skin. It feels like it will never wash off.

Embrace the slime.

The acid of the pus melts through your protective gear and eats at your flesh. It gives off a nasty gas, which you inhale and start to dream of a quicker death in a more pleasant place.

But wait, you're not actually dead. Which means you get a prize from deep within the rubbish container: It's several plastic bags of used tissues and excrement!

These stools are on the bigger side -- either they come from a large dog breed, or they're human.

Probably someone who doesn't have access to a working toilet.

If that's the case, they can't be far from here -- no one is walking a long distance to dispose of faeces.

I should have left the slime where it was.

All part of the genre. This is the essence of dark fantasy.

Never mind, we're not doing this. (Get out the bin.)

You struggle back out of the bin and brush yourself off.

Back again? The wastescape in this bin is no better than before. You'll need to channel your memories of dark fantasy to cope with the descent.

Alright, this is now a dark fantasy adventure. Kickstart the imagination engine.

Somewhere in your mind, an ancient motor grinds to life.

You jump up to the rim and and let your upper body descend into the rotting wastescape.

Why are we in here? The gäng doesn't huddle in dungeons. The gäng doesn't fuck with dark fantasy.

Dark fantasy?

Like the pulpy dreck you used to read as a child, with titles like 'Ditchwader', 'The Gore Chamber', and 'The Dreadlance Trilogy'.

It's like you're entering the putrid lands of some dark fantasy.

Once more into the rubbish.

Your study in urban forensics remains incomplete. There are more strata to go.

That's enough for me. [Leave.]

The rubbish container and all its spoils continue to rot through time.

Rubbish is piled so high it overflows the rim of the metal container.

The sanitation crews are running behind schedule.