Chuck follows the trail, taking the route laid before him by the Harrower. Ever has the trail been marked, and remarked, again and again, through the ages, but always the markings become covered over by shit, and slime, and blood.
His time is lost time— every moment squandered here is an unknown stretch above. Still he lingers, something out of place, flickering in the dark. Chuck approaches a small beacon, flashing off and on, and he sees a tattered suit, the body inside shrunken and peeling. His attention narrows to the source of the light: a Rodent Industries communicator, clipped to the shoulder.
The creatures down here did a thorough job. No identification, no face, no teeth. Hole in the forehead, skull puncture by some precision tool, no drill marks. Doesn't add up. Chuck imagines it could have been an OSK tech, but the communicator is too low-graded for Orbital tastes, unlikely to pass signal down this far.
Chuck unclips the communicator and taps the primitive key-console. The device reboots, slowly, showing some icon he cannot identify as belonging to any major space-city zaibatsu. A message plays:
You dissolve and coagulate, Chuck?
I imagine that by now you've been
told what you're dealing with.
Serve us well.
Before Chuck continues he must first seek the unseen technicians and beg their aid and repair.