You stand before Tempo's door once more.

You stand before Tempo's door once more.

Knock.

No response.

A whisper beyond the doorframe. Ripples of frozen air, a shattered seal. Seven people stare through a window as an unseen hand taps at the glass.

Try to open the door.

It's locked.

Try again.

Still locked, somewhat inevitably.

What now?

Try one of the many doors that are not locked. Or the open air black market, which happily doesn't feature doors at all.

Alternative wording

Show it who's boss.

Nothing ever goes my way.

Alternative wording

I don't have time for this!

This door isn't going any way, currently.

Alternative wording

Then stop being so polite.

"Tempo! It's me, brother. I'm back!"

Silence from the other side.

Below you, the social static of the bazaar, muffled by distance.

"I'm really sorry about how everything went down five years ago!"

You get no answer, no twitch or shuffle behind the metal.

But you get an impression of the room. A vibration. Somewhere between crime scene and radioactive accident.

Yet you can sense something leaking through the door seams. Unearthing. Contamination.

"Please don't say they took you out too."

"We'll bring them all down if we have to. You and me."

"Are you already beyond my reach?"

"Are you in there, teenage girl?"

No answer.

"At least tell me Tempo's okay."

Silence.

"At least tell me you're okay."

"Carmuna called you a 'hussy', do you have a response?"

Give it a light kick.

A brief tremor runs through the metal, but it doesn't budge.

Humans dominate doors every day! Hurl this one back down the pecking order.

Your asset called for you. Whatever's behind this, you can take it.

Stop. Don't enter, don't break this seal. This doesn't have to be yours.

Bust this door in.

Gäng-HO!

Kick it for Tempo.

The frame screams in protest, then concedes as you fling the door backwards into the room.

Kick it for PSEUDOPOD.

Kick it for you.

Decaying rectangle. Limited movement. Kill!

Fling your foot.

... Nothing happened! The gäng look at each, mystified. Did we use the wrong leg?

Wait, that should've hurt more...

Oh yeah. About to hurt. Very badly. Neurons firing their way down our leg like dominoes, three, two, one...

Fuck! (Grip your foot as tight as you can.)

Fortunately, you kicked the door right on the handle.

Why's that fortunate? It's the source of my pain.

Because our shit kick killed the lock. Go!

What I was aiming for, obviously.

Lock's busted! Even when we kick shit, doors can't take it. Go!

Again! (Ready your foot.)

Hold it. Not again. About to hurt. Neurons firing their way down our leg like dominoes, three, two, one...

Can I pick this lock?

It's a standard lock and you have a lockpick to hand -- so you can certainly try.

It's a standard lock, pickable by the right hands.

The right hands would be holding tools for lock picking.

I'll give it a whack with this. (Use your screwdriver.)

You press the screwdriver tip against the keyhole. It doesn't seem to fit. At all.

This is a tough watch.

Relax, just the first door back, I'm still getting loose. (Rattle it around.)

Operant, you are prodding a keyhole with a pointed metal cylinder. It doesn't scream match ready.

Our friend needs help -- kick the fucking thing down.

Maybe I can unscrew it, then...

Six tri-wing screws, wrong fit, wrong size. Your driver is impotent.

No, no, I got this. (Push a little harder.)

Metal clinks pathetically against metal. The lock is unmoved.

Got it. (Go back.)

The lock awaits your move.

Pick the lock.

You slip the arm of the tool into the lock, exploring its cold metal viscera on feel alone.

Show the lock how it's done.

You jimmy like you've never jimmied before. This tool isn't even a jimmy. You don't care. You are the boss. The lock relents out of sheer panic and respect.

A last gentle click and the way is open.

Inhale, concentrate.

You focus into your hand until the tool becomes a part of it. You feel the pins relent, believing your lies.

"Slutty little lock. You love being picked."

The mechanism's pins rise like goosebumps in response to your voice, making them even easier to feel out on the tool's long edge. You caress them into place.

It's not happening. You'll need to try something else.

If this is the beginning... one must fear the end.

You yank the tool back and something snaps within the door. Tiny metal shards of the lock core fall out of the keyhole.

... Or just do that. Ancient technique. Very intentional.

Whatever you did, it worked. The way is open.

As you push the point of your tool into the lock, you feel it stick within the internal teeth. It feels like a hook -- an anti-lock-picking measure.

Wiggle it carefully back out.

You grit your teeth in concentration as you work the tool slowly out of the lock. It comes free, unscathed, but the lock mechanism has jammed fast.

How do they expect you to work with this amateur set of lock picks?

Pull it out fast.

You yank the tool back out of the lock unscathed, but the lock jams shut behind it.

"Damn it, Tempo."

The lock hears its master's name and releases your tool, but jams shut in protest nonetheless.

Pick the lock.

Enough door. [Leave.]

Alternative wording

I'll be back. [Leave.]

You step back from the door.

The steel door to Tempo's office is before you. Faint oxidation halos bloom across it, like algae on a sunken wreck.

Alternative wording

You approach the steel door again, this time knowing who it belongs to.

You stand before the steel door once more.

A steel door is before you. Faint oxidation halos bloom across it, like algae on a sunken wreck.