Dept. 210

There's a doorway, and beyond that a confessional. "This used to be a church. Not a church, a temple or something, pre-christian." Following the voice, there beneath an arcing blue bolt writhing between two wires. "We prefer cloister. Cloister is exactly the term.."

She speaks from the rafters. You're at the workstation, examining the device you've just removed from beneath the skin of your left thigh. "Everyone has one embedded there, it helps to tattoo the area repeatedly with green ink. Helps you discern it while in the narrative. There's a machine on the table there, it broke the pattern you've been looping."

A long table, rows and rows of sliders but only one dial, one speaker, one quartz crystal ticking away deep in its insect heart.

You turn down the dial and examine the frequency. Repeating F# endlessly, the chronometric adviser lay significantly under-utilized, but would occasionally emit bursts of scattered pink on brown noise, static jarring, infrequent.

"You one of Doc Tesla's boys?" The voice from what you'd thought to be a wall... There was a wall directly across from you, you look up not at a wall now, but a window. A window stretched over with some sort of decayed, peeling celluloid. The celluloid was green, behind it a grotesque figure leered. Quinine and mango soda from an unrecognizable misshapen lump of machinery filling the steel-rimmed jug the figure held. "Drink?"

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