"Hello again." The subeditor smiles at you with the left side of her mouth.

"Hello again." The subeditor smiles at you with the left side of her mouth.

She's wearing rain boots. Odd choice for an office job, unless she spends a lot of time in that secure basement.

"How do I submit a poem?"

"You should give it to Haya! Accepting submissions is way above my station... but I can't wait to read it."

"Wait, who's Haya?"

"The editor-in-chief. She's right over there." She nods at the woman to your right.

"I've heard people speak highly of this place. What's its deal?"

"Its deal." She smiles. "You're so contemporary! It's a poetry quarterly, small batch press, mid-tier distribution."

"Haya's really the person to talk to if you're looking for a mission statement, not me. I was assigned here as part of a sponsorship grant."

"Wait, who's Haya?"

"The editor-in-chief. She's right over there." She nods at the woman to your right.

BIG WORD BOSS.

"'Mission statements' -- sounds constricting. I'm more about free verse."

"No, I love it here. Just being exposed to poetry at all is so thrilling. And they let me edit it!"

"Ah, you work for the Civilisation Trust."

"That is who employs me, yes." She stares at you with a faint smile.

Wait, that means she belongs to EMTERR. She is your enemy.

"What do you think of Haya?"

"She teaches me so much, I'm so lucky to be here."

"What do you really think about her?"

"She's the best. Really!"

"She told me you have a lot of practising to do."

"Oh... well if Haya says it then it must be true. I'll keep working hard on improving my form."

"Cool. Just curious." (Back.)

"So I see. And hear."

An odd smile -- there's something insincere about this woman.

"Tell me what it's like to be a subeditor."

"Proofreading, mostly. Occasionally coffee brewing, cabinet filing, and floor sweeping." She pauses. "Quite a bit of floor sweeping."

"So more 'sub' than 'editor'."

"I'm happy to do it! There are so many more important things to focus on when running a magazine."

"I'm part of a placement program, getting young people situated with arts and cultural institutions. I'm very grateful."

She doesn't look that young.

"Aren't you afraid of letting them down? That would preoccupy me."

"Do you worry about that often?" She fixes you with her soft brown eyes.

"I just hate to see women in the arts fail."

"I also hate to see women in the arts... fail. I hate it so much I can barely say it! But don't worry -- the Civilisation Trust sponsors people like me to make sure that won't happen."

Somewhere in subterranean Novessa, an Opera controller's nose twitches.

She was placed here by the sponsor -- The Civilisation Trust -- that means she belongs to EMTERR.

And that Ile-de-Söze is a human trafficking destination. An EMTERR labour colony.

Must be the same institution that the Editor-in-Chief mentioned. The one that's been giving the magazine their grants.

"Daily. Maybe I can use it in my poetry."

"I used to feel that way about my editing, but then I learned how to use the typewriter properly and all the lines stopped being wonky. So... I believe in you!"

"Faceless bureaucrats have placed you here, in other words. Have you ever questioned their motives?"

"'Motives'? They're offering me support." She laughs. "They were the ones questioning my motives, the selection process was pretty rough."

"I'm just here to make sure everything runs smoothly."

She was placed here by the sponsor -- The Civilisation Trust -- that means she belongs to EMTERR.

"Lie in wait a few years, then seize the big chair. Smart."

"The magazine's sponsor saw that Haya and The Review needed a helping hand. I am that hand. That's all."

"Who's Haya?"

"The Editor-in-Chief of this magazine. She's the one in charge -- just over there." She nods at the area to your right.

"We're all placed where we belong, aren't we?"

"Right." She smiles. "I'm very happy being patient."

On a neolithic tundra, a woman in skins stalks an aurochs. She trails behind it, leisurely, determined. The huge ungulate's knees buckle with each laboured step. She'll strike when the animal can't run anymore.

The hunt will last three days.

"So you have to deal with that flooded basement all by yourself?"

"I wouldn't want her to be bothered with something so menial -- she has poetry to contemplate!"

"In other words, you do most of the actual work."

"The actual work is conceptual, thinking about poetry. I haven't got to that level yet. Conceptual thinking is pretty hard."

"Do you ever do any of your own writing?"

"Is there any way to have a look in the back?"

"It's where all the fun happens! You just need to submit a poem and get it accepted then you can go back there."

"What's back there?" (Point at the door behind her.)

"The editor-in-chief's office, mostly."

The word 'mostly' in that sentence seems to be hiding something.

"Mostly?"

"There's the file room, too. But you don't want to go down there, it's half flooded all the time, like I told you. Already."

A risky place to keep important documents. You wouldn't want anything down there unless you had something to hide.

That practically confirms it -- this place is a front for the secret jail. The prisoner must be somewhere behind that door, you just need to get through.

A successful poem submission might be the simplest way of doing it.

There's always the dangerous option. Express delivery.

I live for danger. Go on.

Get yourself disappeared via that tapped payphone. End up in the basement with the missing father.

For something sneakier, you could try the route via the waterlock you drained...

"Anything else I can help you with? The Noscorrentes Review takes the mental health of its contributors very seriously."

For something more secretive, that little girl mentioned a door in the waterlock...

Or you could case the rest of the building to see if there's an alternative way down there.

Get yourself disappeared via that tapped payphone. End up in the basement -- you may even find that missing father.

Get yourself disappeared via that tapped payphone. End up in the basement.

Absolutely not.

Suit yourself, but if you find yourself out of options the payphone that disappears people isn't going anywhere.

But I'm a spy.

That's what this place is all about. You know -- words arranged in metre on a page.

I can turn a phrase if one needs turning.

Get to work. There's a block of letter paper and a pen on your desk at Foto 24.

Forget that shitty Opera-assigned pen. You've got an editor's pen now!

Get to work. There's probably some writing materials back on the desk at Foto 24.

A ripe opportunity to see how this new editor's pen glides on the page.

These people love words. Use them to find out what it will take to get them to open it for you.

"There's the file room, too. But you don't want to go down there, it's half flooded all the time."

"Weird that it's off-limits."

"Is it? Staff and contributors might be working in there. It's important not to disturb the artistic process!"

"What's the deal with the exercises?" (Point to the papers.)

"Guidelines for me to follow! When I do get a chance to look over submissions, this is the checklist to see what has merit and what does not. Without them I'd just never know how to read."

You cannot weigh a soul with guidelines.

GOOD, THIS 'POETRY' HAS RULES AND DOCUMENTS.

"Seems very technical for poetry."

"That sounds like technicality and poetry are incompatible. Maybe they are and I just haven't learned that yet..."

"You don't know how to read?"

"Obviously I can read, I mean, like, close reading." She puts on a stiff and proper voice. "The way we read poetry."

"Do you even like poetry?"

"No one's ever asked me that before." She laughs. "What a silly question!"

One she can't bring herself to answer.

"Yeah, cool. Reading's cool." (Back.)

"That's so true and insightful."

"There's something else I want to ask about." (Go back.)

"Alright."

"Alright."

She rests her small palm on top of the sheet of paper and slides it towards her side of the desk.

Away from you.

"I knew you'd be pretty. Because of your voice."

"Stop that! I'm at work." She smoothes her dress down then glances back up at you.

"Any more gadgets I could peel around here?"

"No," she says, firmly.

A spark of annoyance flashes into her expression of serene affability.

"But it's okay. It's okay that you peeled my gadget. I forgive you."

"You're wearing rain boots. Odd choice for an office."

"Oh, I know, aren't they silly? Our filing cabinets are in the basement and it sometimes floods down there. But I'm just the subeditor so it's me who has to go when we need something."

What else is down there?

And who else?

A plucky literary aspirant, grinding away experience in the hallowed hall of art! Adorable.

THE SUB-BOSS OF WORDS. SEE HOW SHE FLAUNTS THE RED PEN OF REDACTION?

"You must be my plastic peeler." She smiles.

"That's me."

"Got you." She flicks her red pen at you and giggles.

Dilated pupils. Into you.

"So... how can I help you?"

Alternative wording

"So... how can I help you? I'll try to talk quietly so that my voice doesn't upset you."

Alternative wording

"So... how can I help you? Or do you just want to listen to my voice?"

She tries to flutter her eyelashes, flirtatious and clumsy.

And cute.

"I wouldn't peel another woman's plastic."

"Oh. How disappointing." She flicks her red pen at you and giggles.

"I caught you watching me."

"Caught?" She blinks, tapping her red pen against her cheek. "You're the one who asked to come in..."

"Good for you. I'm looking for the Big Word Boss.

"Don't sell yourself short, editing is an important job."

"That's what the lead editor keeps telling me, too -- thanks for the encouragement." She fingers the lid of her red pen with a small smile.

"Good. If you were a real poet then we'd be rivals."

"Maybe one day... when I finally figure out semicolons." She fingers the lid of her red pen with a small smile. "But no, I'd never compete with you."

"You seem fond of that pen."

"Oh, this?" She twirls it in her fingers. "It's my special corrections pen."

"When you submit, you submit to this." She giggles and looks away.

"Where's the rest of the staff?"

"There are no more. It's just me and Haya over there."

She nods at the other woman in the room with an air of admiration.

"What does Haya do?"

"She's the editor-in-chief. She's the one in charge around here."

"No men? Must be nice."

Alternative wording

"So no men taking up lead positions?"

"Just a coincidence, really. We're very sympathetic to men's problems. But we also think that women's literature should be heard! So it needs more attention from us editors."

"Okay. Cool." (Drop it.)

She nods.

"Is it really just the two of you here?"

"Yep, just the two of us."

"Did a middle-aged man in a brown jacket and glasses ever come in here?"

"Nope. I remember everyone who has come in through that door, and we never had someone like that. Sorry!"

That means she'll remember you, too.

That was happening anyway after the way you insulted her voice.

Hopefully for the right reasons.

"I'm looking for a 'miracle'. Can you help me?" (Present the business card.)

"Oh!" Her face reddens. "I don't know if we should discuss that... I'm at work."

"Now you have to tell me what it is."

"Sorry, but I'm not going to get into trouble for someone who insulted me as soon as they spoke to me." She lets out a small huff.

"Okay, if you're sure..." She leans in, lowering her voice. "It's an erotic hotline, or so I've heard."

Heard? Sure, with her own ears, when she picked up the receiver.

"You've used it, haven't you?"

"No, of course not!" More red flushes her cheeks.

See? Told you.

"Where can I find it?"

"It's the payphone at the far end of the Backways, all the way to the west. Looks right over the water."

"It's okay. I won't say anything to her." (Nod at the editor-in-chief.)

"Oh, sorry." (Drop it.)

"That's okay. You didn't know." Her cheeks lift into an understanding smile.

"Keep up the good work." [Leave.]

Alternative wording

"Keep up the good subediting." [Leave.]

"I'll pass your review along to the Editor-in-Chief."

Alternative wording

"I will. And reading, and filing, and brewing." Her eyelid flickers in an almost imperceptible wink.

"Bonjour! Bienvenue! Welcome to the Noscorrentes Review."

Knitwear ensemble, sensible boots, a collection of beaded necklaces. She smiles shyly as you take her in.

She's wearing wading boots. Odd choice for an office job, unless she spends a lot of time in that secure basement.

"What's with the rain boots?"

"You're the subeditor, right?"

"That's me! Anything you need subediting just let me know and I'll try my best."

"Are you one of the poets here?"

"Me? A poet?" she giggles, blushing. "No, I'm just the subeditor."

"You're the woman who let me in."

"I am. Don't mind me, I'm just the subeditor."