The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

Peel off the plastic film.

It curls under the edge of your fingernail, then slides off in a single, unbroken piece.

Exquisite.

You can see your reflection, flipped, in the unblemished metal.

Consider your upside-down self.

You find you can't, given your headgear. Your face is a secret you've elected to keep even from yourself.

There's a compulsion to check your reflection every time you pass a mirrored surface.

Got to keep up appearances in-theatre.

Of course. Can't let anyone peel your protective layer off.

Just checking behind me.

Nothing but a canal bank and a looming green monster.

Flick your hair.

Like a hallway mirror glance on the way to a date. You do the same before you call Melita, even though you know she'll never see you.

This was solely about the plastic.

And what was underneath the plastic? Turns out it was you.

Why did I feel the need to do that?

Felt good. Take your dopamine where you can get it.

Press the 'CALL' button.

Nothing happens. The lights are off; there's nobody to answer at night.

Below your feet, the prisoner slips in and out of a terrifying dream.

Or maybe somebody's just been left in the dark.

Try again during business hours.

The indicator light flicks on.

"Hello?"

A thin whip of static and no response.

"Answer me!"

More void noise. You might as well be trying to make contact with a distant solar system.

Give it up. (Back.)

The indicator light stays on for a few seconds before eventually dying in the silence.

The indicator light flicks on again.

With a certain excitement, you discern.

"Can I help you?"

"This is the Noscorrentes Review, right?"

"Correct. That's us."

"I'm interested in submitting some poetry."

"Ah, wonderful. I'll unlock the door for you. Un moment."

You're through -- now keep your seams together. Play the poet persona to the hilt.

A good poet listens more than they speak.

Poetry's easy. Make it short, make it vague. Speak in rhyme.

You're in -- as a poet. Don't let them believe you're anything else.

Abandon all logic. You're about to enter the Poet's Domain.

"I'm here to save your failing magazine with my verse."

"We have a small yet committed readership... we wouldn't describe the magazine as 'failing'... but if you'd like to submit, I'll let you through."

"Is this intercom new?"

"Yes, actually. We aren't exactly open to the public, so this is just a light security --" Another tear of static cuts her short.

"-- Measure. Sorry, I'm still getting used to it."

Intercom looks expensive, the interference suggests a building-wide system. Nothing 'light' about this security.

The kind of places that need security intercoms: Gated communities. Government buildings. Prisons.

"What's this building used for?"

"Désolée. If you don't know, you're probably not supposed to be here."

Very vague. Almost... secretive.

"I might be. I won't know for sure unless you tell me."

"Nice try. But I won't be doing that. Security issue."

The dermis of static masks any change in her tone.

Seems you need a good reason to be here. Fortunately, you are trained in reverse reasoning.

This door opens for someone, that's why there's an intercom. You just need her to tell you who.

"I just wanted to look around."

"Unfortunately, we don't really accommodate 'looks around'."

"I go where I please, intercom. You can't stop me."

"I think the door is doing most of the stopping."

Open the door.

Let's see what we have to work with: her tone, the foreign affectations, the unfamiliarity with technology, the undercurrent of homosexuality...

Not to mention the lack of industry around the building, a general sense of not a lot going on.

Scans... 'artistic'.

Yep. This is some kind of cultural front. Try that.

"I'm looking to move into a creative field. I was told this would be a good place to start."

"You're a poet?"

Poetry, good. Too officious for a reading group, so more likely:

"A poet, yes. Are you accepting submissions?"

"The magazine is open for submissions, of course..."

Poetry magazine. Direct hit.

Of course. When an industry dies out, its buildings are repurposed into offices for that contemporary, utilitarian feel.

"It might be better if you come in. I'll open the door."

Let's see what we have to work with: her tone, the foreign affectations, the unfamiliarity with technology despite it obviously being part of her job...

Yeah, probably going to need some visual aids here. You've got nothing.

Fuck it, have you tried asking nicely?

"Please can you open the door?"

"I appreciate your manners, but no, I cannot. Not until I'm given good reason."

Bitch.

"I would be very grateful if you would grant me passage."

Sealed up tight... Right next to water... Only one explanation here:

Alternative wording

Sealed up tight... Right next to water... It's even got an underwater door. Only one explanation here:

"Is this the dolphin guild HQ?"

"The what, sorry?"

"Am I speaking with a representative, or an actual dolphin?"

"You're speaking with a human woman."

"If you're here to waste my time -- please don't."

How do they get the intercom to work underwater?

"You won't let me in because you don't want me to see your tails."

"Is this another crank call? This is exactly why we got the intercom..."

Click into the speaker.

"You have a nice voice."

"Thank you." A ripple of static. "No one's ever told me that before."

They have. Many people have.

WHAT IS THIS, THE MAKING FRIENDS INTERCOM? IT IS IN YOUR WAY, BATTER ITS DEFENCES.

"You really do."

"That's a very nice thing to hear, out of clear blue... through this little speaker in front of me."

"You also have a nice voice."

"You're not just saying that?"

"I'm not."

"But don't think I've forgiven you for the plastic transgression."

"You're just saying that."

"No, I'm really not."

"You can't see me through this thing?"

"No, there's no camera. Just your voice and my imagination."

"I can tell. I have a thing about voices."

"I was being sarcastic. You've got one of the worst voices I've ever heard."

"Oh. Okay." A long pause. "I'm afraid I can't change that."

"Static's doing you a massive favour."

"I get your point, yes. Thank you for the critique."

YOU'RE WELCOME.

"Yes you can, it's your voice. Go higher, go lower, don't speak..."

"I peeled your plastic off."

The line hisses with dead static.

"The plastic... on the intercom?"

"That's right."

"You savage."

First blood: CASCADE.

"Could you try and replace it?"

"The plastic?"

"Yes. Maybe it'll go back on."

You look at the crumpled, sticky mess of plastic in your hand.

Translucent and grotesque, like an electronic gecko molt. It will never be skin again.

"I'm sorry. The thingie will not be unflayed."

"This has ruined my day."

"You're lucky you have a nice voice."

"It won't."

"You sound very sure." A sigh. "How tragique."

"The intercom?"

"No, the plastic. Maybe it will go back on."

Genuinely upset.

"I couldn't resist, I'm sorry."

"That was not your plastic to peel."

"It's weird that you didn't do it already, to be honest."

"I was saving that as a little reward for myself. Now you've ruined it."

"That's all, thank you." [Leave.]

"Bonne journée." The line snaps off as the intercom light dims.

With a certain weariness, you discern.

The intercom light flicks back on.

"Yes?"

"It's me again."

"Oh. Merveilleux."

"Are you the same person I talked to before?"

"I am."

Alternative wording

"You're quick to forget a nice voice, aren't you?"

Alternative wording

"I am. One of the worst voices you've ever heard, as I recall."

"Bad news. Plastic's not going back on."

"That breaks my heart."

"Very sorry, again."

"It's just such a rare event. How many times in their life does one get to peel the plastic from something brand new? And you've stolen this one from me."

Blaming us 'cos this bitch edged her peel game. Sick shit.

"Insane thing to ask, also. That's not how peelable plastic works."

"Sounds like I'll never get the chance to know."

The indicator light flicks on.

"Hello?"

A high-pitch whine from the speaker. After a second, a voice emerges through the static:

"Is it working? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, loud and clear."

"Oh, that's good. I never know if I'm pressing the right thing..."

A melodic voice that makes you think of flowers blooming in timelapse.

Holiday phone girlfriend. Claim her.

"Not really, can you try opening the door?"

"Sorry, I can't just 'open the door'. That's the point of this thing. I have to know why you're here."

On second thought... (Go back.)

Back off. [Leave.]

The revealed intercom gleams as you turn away.

You leave the intercom how you found it.

The intercom glints in the shadows.

The intercom appears very snug under its plastic film.

Skin it. NOW.

The intercom is covered by a protective plastic film. A button embossed in the shape of a cheerful dolphin shines at the bottom.

Yet another device bearing the Renotel emblem. Only recently installed, too.

Tautening the outer defences.

Strip that plastic off. Now.

Only recently installed.