You return to the collapsing pneumatic system.

You return to the collapsing pneumatic system.

Snatches of the song's chorus echo down the tubes. You're closer to the source.

Tap along to the building's song on the tubes.

You drum with both fingers, hearing the pipes pop like oversized chimes.

As you follow the rhythm, the sound of running footsteps joins in from behind you.

Turn to watch.

The woman you saw earlier races into the room, the man's gift in both hands. She's flushed, hurrying. She stuffs the package into one of the pneumatic tubes.

Alternative wording

Young Carmuna races into the room, the Superbloc accented man's package in both hands. She's flushed, hurrying.

"Hey, misters of security." She calls to two shadowy figures at the desk. "It's only Carmuna."

Carmuna? Her voice sounds much younger but otherwise the same -- this is the old woman from the bazaar, long ago.

"Let me send this gift in the tubes -- it's for the listening party, but they won't be able to see my dress if I'm holding it."

The giftwrapped box Kurt was talking about -- she sent it to cubby hole D6 in the upstairs office.

The package nears and the song crescendos -- then fades again as the tube system pulls it out of sight.

"See you later!"

She turns and dissolves, as does the song.

A pretty young woman rushes into the room, a package in both hands. She has a red flower in her hair, her shoes sparkle beneath the hem of her skirt.

There are ghosts in here.

I know!

So why are you here?

Please get used to it.

Grow accustomed to the haunted basement. Got it.

Ghosts! Ghosts!!

Yes, I get it -- ghosts! Hush.

You're just going to be in here with the ghosts. Alright.

Yeah is this a bit fucked maybe?

Get the fuck out of here!

Examine the pipes.

Tangled and rotting, each uniquely fucked.

High pitched squeaks and the scrabbling of claws from within the tubes, it is a rat maze.

What happened to the tubes?

Time, mostly. But some of the damage looks purposeful -- particularly to one tube. On closer inspection you see that someone has scratched 'FOR THE SUPREME CUNT' into the metal.

Reach inside.

You stick your arm deep into one of the tubes.

There is rat shit everywhere. You're going to get rabid.

THESE ARE PARTY RATS. SALUTE THEM.

Salute in the tube.

You feel whiskers at your fingertips, the warmth of tiny breath. None bite you.

They likely haven't seen outside the Palace of Culture in six generations. Poor instincts.

Take out your arm.

You hear an offended squeak and feel a nip at your fingertips. Some fucker bit you.

Grab the fucker.

The fucker bites you again, harder, before retreating beyond where your arm will go.

RECALL THOSE CRITICAL TEETH THE NEXT TIME YOU HAVE ANTI-SOLIDARITY NOTIONS.

Snatch out your hand.

You withdraw your hand to the sound of victorious squeaking from within the tubes.

What else... (Go back.)

You turn your attention away.

Where did the package go?

You lower your face to the right tube, looking up into the building's insides for clues. You feel a slight tugging sensation still, after all this time.

Let it take you.

With a sudden THWUCK you are propelled forward into the pitch-black tube. You feel yourself careening around the building, through walls and ceilings as you wind towards your destination.

The rats squeak happily as you pass, cheering your slippery ascent. Their voices chirp in time with the drums.

The song gets louder and louder until finally you see faint light at the end of the tunnel -- a huge desk, a chair, giant 'N'. It's Nestor's office, a pigeonhole marked D6.

Sounds like this is the source of the song. Maybe the cubby hole still has that package.

As you fly you feel another foul nip at your waist, your legs, your arms -- the rats have a taste for your flesh.

"Forgive me, tube rats!"

They nibble you with slightly less aggression as you pass.

Try to tube faster.

You stick your arms to either side of your body -- thwarted rodents scream as you accelerate.

Thrash.

The rats throng at you as you attempt to shake them off, biting and gnawing. One of them lands its teeth on the back of your neck before you manage to free yourself and fly on.

You have even less idea this time.

You have no idea.

Leave.

You leave the system to melt. Slowly.

Closer, you realise that it's a pneumatic tube system -- pipes which once carried parcels and letters throughout the building. They wheeze and crack, suffocating in their disrepair.

You can hear the faint echo of a song.

You can hear snatches of drumbeat, but you don't know where it's coming from.