Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light provided by the recessed bulb above you.

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light provided by the recessed bulb above you.

What comes through very clear is the stench of rotten eggs, topped with a measure of days-old excreta.

Assess the room.

It appears to be a utility room. Opposite you: a tangled network of pipes, and an imposing door.

What if someone messes with the water-lock while I'm here?

Judging by the room's condition, the door behind you is mostly watertight.

You'd be trapped here.

Why? I can swim.

You'd have to open a highly-pressurised door and survive several cubic tons of water crashing right into you.

The kind of gäng pile-on you don't come back from.

Better keep moving, then.

Water drips around you, a steady ticking.

Maybe I shouldn't be down here...

The sound of water all around you sets your teeth on edge.

Alright. (Go back.)

What's with the stink?

At least one of the pipes is responsible for transporting toilet water. It's not doing a great job.

Awful waste management. The ex-pilots did know what they were talking about.

Examine the pipes.

It's a plumbing system. Some of the pipes appear newer, black and smooth as river stones. The others, copper-coloured, are in a pitiful state and visibly leaking.

The dark ones are galvanized steel. Threaded joints, auxiliary lines for overflow -- a major upgrade.

When were those installed?

Judging by the lack of wear? Recently. A few months, maybe.

Look at the door across from you. (Conclude.)

A heavy-duty security door -- composite alloy, military-grade. A faint glow pulses from its keypad, like a pale iris in the dark.

A Wachbann door. Double-skin boron-alloy, tungsten-carbide backing, sixty millimetre core. High-end prison-grade.

What about EMTERR-grade?

Very likely. The Wachbann series is manufactured primarily in Ibn-Afar, one of the Developed World's extra juris partners.

Between that and the intercom, Hauzmann wasn't kidding about recent security upgrades.

Looks like I found a way into the jail.

Assuming you can get through that.

A forking road, then. Above, you'd have to blend in. Below, you bask in the shadows, and hope trouble doesn't await beyond the door.

Shadows gather at the edges, expectant.

You still don't know what the building above contains. Maybe there's an easier way in.

You have so far gone unnoticed. You may spoil that by exploring other routes.

Oh, I can't wait to ruin that fancy thing.

Only metres away, the keypad pulses faintly, as if expecting you.

That seals it. The jail's here.

There's no other reason for a small literary journal to have that kind of security. Any lingering doubts you had vanish.

Staring at the door, all lingering doubts vanish.

More confirmation that the literary journal is a front being ran by the Civilisation Trust.

There'd be no other reason for them to have that kind of security. This is, without a doubt, a secret jail.

Shit. This isn't just a literary journal.

The jail. It's here.

Staring at the door, no other evidence is needed. Whatever the building above you is pretending to be, it's a lie.

Hauzmann mentioned recent security upgrades. That'd be one of them.

Quite the investments in security, between that door and the intercom.

Quite the investment in security.

That, and the intercom. The heartless man in the bar wasn't kidding about security upgrades.

The heartless man mentioned recent security upgrades. That'd be one of them.