You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.

You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.

Etched into the metal, something you didn't see before: 'NEED CASH QUICK? APPLY FOR A LOAN NOW'. This is followed by a phone number.

No need to spend your own money when you can simply borrow somebody else's.

FICTITIOUS CAPITAL IS AMONG THE MOST DESPICABLE OF THE DEVELOPED WORLD'S TORTURE DEVICES.

Take out another loan.

'Bienvenidos, valued Financial Citizen.'

'Press 1 to apply for additional funds. Press 2 to decline.'

Press 1.

'Your account has been credited. The Financial Citizen is your passport to purchasing power.'

'This call will now end.' A little jingle, and the line disconnects.

Press 2.

'You have declined. The Financial Citizen wishes you bon voyage. This call will now end.'

[Hang up.]

The receiver clicks back into place. The Renotel dolphin eyes you expectantly.

'The Financial Citizen programme limits customers to one loan per day. Please apply again tomorrow. This call will now end.' The line goes dead.

You need money to get money.

Apply for a loan.

'Welcome to the Financial Citizen programme.'

'To apply for a short-term loan, press 1. To find out how Financial Citizenship can help you achieve your personal goals, press 2.'

Press 1.

'Felicidades! Your application has been accepted. To begin enjoying the benefits of financial citizenship, please use the keypad to enter your account number. To go back, press the hash key.'

Enter your own details.

Try Reno's details.

'No account on record. Please speak with one of our financial consuls for assistance.'

Input Eszti's details.

Punch in Kurt's details.

'This account is already maxed out. Please speak with one of our financial consuls for assistance.'

Press hash. (Go back.)

Press 2.

'The Financial Citizen programme is your passport to purchasing power, offering immediate access to short term liquidity for qualified applicants,' says the soothing voice.

Money now, problems later.

'Our flexible repayment terms are designed for the way you live. Plans carry annual percentage rates from 0% to 600%, based on creditworthiness, market conditions, and the lender's sole discretion'.

There it is. A fee designed to catch you in a trap and swallow the lives of entire families.

Sure, 600% may seem like a lot, but that's only if you pay it back.

Free money, no downsides detected.

There's going to be some horrible catch to all this.

Poke the dolphin's nose.

No reaction, but the thrill is nonetheless palpable.

Look at the dolphin emblem.

The dolphin's playful gaze remains fixed on you.

Look at something else. (Go back.)

Your gaze wanders away. The dolphin doesn't seem to mind at all.

The emblematic animal of Portofiro's main phone company -- Renotel.

Dial the prisoner's number.

A faint crackle, void of meaning. Nothing else comes through.

Gunshot echo. A cold splash. Together, infinitely resonating.

He's gone.

A hollowed out shape. The outline of a man.

A shape among darkness. Panting, running.

Must have already been moved out of the cell, ready for the trade.

Connect to the prisoner.

Call Gonza's second wife.

You're too poor.

Call the first number from Dr. Gonza's list.

Maybe when you have the funds needed.

Call the second number from Dr. Gonza's list.

Call Gonza's dealer.

Call someone else. (Go back.)

The Renotel dolphin eyes you expectantly.

[Leave.]

You step away from the payphone.

Call one of the numbers on Gonza's list.

You reach for the crumpled page.

You recall the numbers without effort.

Call Bagman.

You don't have enough money. The dolphin looks disappointed.

Call Bagman again.

Call Melita.

A few rings, then it cuts short.

The origami message told you to use the payphone on the western side of Party Alley -- not this one.

Maybe she'll answer if you call her from Foto 24 -- it's safer there.

"People's Trade Bureau, Novessa office."

"I'm running into some issues with the local supply network." (Ask for help.)

"Nothing for now." [End call.]

"Until next time, trade agent."

The phone rings as you stand in wait. After a while, it becomes clear that no one is going to answer.

Hang up.

You place the receiver back on its cradle.

Dial a random number.

The phone rings in your ear, connecting you distantly to some unknown place.

Wires travel from your ear to a million possibilities -- across Portofiro, further. A skein of electric devout in its connectivity.

A click, a woman in a rented apartment picks up a ringing phone. On the other side, a man with a deep voice utters words that will make her consider ending her life tonight.

Unfortunately, no one picks up your call. The ringing continues in your ear, until it doesn't.

No one picks up your call. The ringing continues in your ear, until it doesn't.

You tap out some numbers devoid of reason or thought. Surprisingly, the phone starts ringing immediately.

Could be anyone about to pick up. A total stranger, their life intruded.

Your breathing is amplified by the transmitter held at your mouth.

A clunk. You hear the ambience of another room, an exhale, then something wet being chewed on over and over.

"Where are you?"

A half grunt that reveals nothing.

Voiceless, limbs tied to a chair, both eyes pushed all the way in. Frantically, they trace the word 'help' on the roof of their mouth with what remains of their tongue.

Suddenly, the line goes dead. They hung up.

In the background, the creak of wood, an aging door used only by the wind.

Something tells you that their teeth are yellowed with decay.

"When was the last time you went to a dentist?"

All you get in response is more chewing.

"Hello?"

No words. The person on the other end just keeps chewing.

"Who is this?"

If they have the ability to speak, they choose not to use it.

"What are you eating?"

Another exhale, the chewing continues.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

They don't answer.

Hang up.

The line goes dead.

You don't have enough money.

What about numbers outside the city?

There is only one. Melita, your controller.

Your lifeline, should you ever need it.

She'd only tell you to get on an aero-tram back home again.

A direct order which you have so far disobeyed.

I won't give up just because I've been told to.

Whether you want it or not, the number is a lifeline to you, always there if you need it.

Maybe she'll be willing to help me if I explain...

The number is a lifeline to you -- always there when you need it.

I want to hear her voice again.

That's a definite no-go.

I don't care. Maybe I need to call her.

Can't I just dial a random number?

It's certainly possible, though any benefit to doing so is unclear.

Don't start wasting your time with prank calls, operant.

Got it. (Move on.)

Reroute the phone to call the prisoner.

Step 1. Take the casing off the front housing with your screwdriver.

Remove the casing.

After unscrewing the fastenings at each corner of the housing, you tug at the plastic until it reluctantly comes away. Underneath sprawls a mini-city of metal prongs and board-mounted circuitry.

Step 2. Spin the dial on the right until you find the intercom frequency.

Slowly turn the dial a click at a time.

Crackling electronic waves break against an anodic shore. The occasional snippet from a conversation breaks up the rhythm, a word at a time.

A relay of chatter. Invisible poetry that travels above and between the walking heads of the city.

As you turn the dial, one word you hear makes you instinctively stop and listen to the rest of the sentence.

"...in darkness, without friend or comfort." A distant splash of water, followed by a thick silence.

"Hello. Can you hear me?" (Speak into the handset.)

He cannot hear you, not yet. Before that is enabled, you need to save this channel and give it a number to streamline any future calls.

Step 3. Hold down the lever with the word 'RESERVE' above it for at least three seconds.

Hold it down.

In your ear, a voice: 'Connection reserved. Please input an eight-digit contact number that will be assigned to this channel.'

You will need to remember this number. No need to make it difficult.

Punch in 1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1.

'That number is already taken,' says the voice. 'Please input an eight-digit contact number.'

Nothing wrong with the classics: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8.

Try CASCADE in numerical form: 3-1-19-3-1-4-5.

'Number accepted', says the voice on the phone. 'Please hold for connection.'

My birth date is easy enough to remember.

It is. However, at only six digits, it's not long enough.

You could make it longer by using the Old Calendar. According to the New Calendar, you were born in 61, but by the old method it was 2632.

Do it: 0-9-0-7-2-6-3-2.

I eschew the old ways. Give me the other options.

'Please input an eight-digit contact number that will be assigned to this channel.'

Fine, we'll go with something else.

Use the vibrational numbers: 11-22-33-44.

That's him! That's the prisoner.

Yes, you're close now. The final step begins with you saving this channel and giving it a number to streamline any future calls.

Spin it as fast as you can, just to see what happens.

The air is assaulted with the pops and cracks of tens of different broadcasting channels phasing in and out.

Sounds like a war fought with the sharp-end of noise.

The abrasive spoils of having fun with technology!

You don't have a clue how to call an intercom from a payphone. It's not like it has a number you can dial.

Intercoms work by receiving radiowaves that fly through the air. The question is how can you get that frequency to travel through this payphone?

Hold the receiver in the air?

That makes no kind of sense. It won't just magically work. You'll have to come at this again from a better angle.

I really feel like I should know this...

This is newfangled wireless technology. Brand new stuff, which means it is the purview of specialist engineers only.

Speaking of which, you've already got the device from the Renotel technician that should make connecting to the prisoner a whole lot easier. You'd be better off pursuing that line of enquiry.

Speaking of which, it wouldn't be a bad idea to recruit the help of that Renotel technician you spoke to earlier. Perhaps he knows of a way to do this.

Speaking of which, it wouldn't be a bad idea to see if you can find a Renotel technician. Perhaps they can help you out with this little dilemma.

Link up the Voskol Auto-Negotiator. (Tune in to the synchronised signal.)

The pronged end of the device's cord slips neatly into a slot at the bottom of the phone set. An aggressive crackle and the line immediately connects.

Link up the Voskol Auto-Negotiator. (Tune in to the synchronised signals.)

You insert the device's cord into the phone set once again.

Try the first signal.

You hesitate.

It didn't work last time. It won't this time.

The phone immediately starts ringing on the other side.

"Quickly."

You know this voice. It's the man at the top of the financial pile -- Mr. Reno himself.

"Reno?"

"Don't act surprised -- you called me. What is it you want?"

"I've hacked into your phone network."

"Congratulations. What do you want -- a certificate?" He scoffs.

Recognition like that never goes amiss.

We crave it! We want it!

"Tell me everything you know about the Grand Lich."

"Tch, I don't have time for fun and games. Goodbye." With a click, the line disconnects.

Unfortunately not your prisoner.

"A certificate would be nice."

"Five-thousand sol. Leave it in a briefcase inside Foto 24."

"Your Auto-Negotiators are difficult to use."

"As expected. They are a work-in-progress. Now, if you don't mind..." With a click, the line disconnects.

"Nothing." (Disconnect.)

You pull the cord out of the phone set.

"Don't rush me. Who do you think you are?"

"Sorry, wrong number."

"Typical." With a click, the line disconnects.

"Wait, this isn't the secret jail?"

"Who is this?"

"Mr. Reno's residence."

The voice is familiar.

"Mr. Reno, who owns Renotel?"

"Yes, though I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message?"

"His Auto-Negotiators are difficult to use."

"I'll pass the word along." With a click, the line disconnects.

"Yeah, tell him I know he's doing business with EMTERR."

"... I'll inform him." A long silence, then, with a click, the line disconnects.

"No, no message." (Disconnect.)

"Why do I recognise this voice?"

"You don't. Goodbye." With a click, the line disconnects.

"Sorry, wrong number."

"Apology accepted. Goodbye." With a click, the line disconnects.

"Wait, this isn't the secret jail?"

"This is no such thing. If that's all, I'm very busy." With a click, the line disconnects.

Connect to the second signal.

The line immediately connects -- no ringing, just a faint crackle of electricity.

I'll come back to this. (Go back.)

You disconnect your device and put it away.

The pronged end of the device's cord slips neatly into a slot at the bottom of the phone set.

Who can I call?

You do not have the number of anyone in this city.

Do I know any other phone numbers?

You do not yet have the number of anyone else in this city.

Leave.