Kid Rock’s muffled, highly processed voice screamed pseudo-rap into my ear. Which led me to the next inevitable question.

What fucking year was it?

With Kinsley’s door, there was a sense of movement. Moving from one room to the next. It didn’t matter that the rooms were far apart, because you still felt that transition, that forward momentum carrying you from point A to point B.

Traveling through the portal on the other hand, was disorienting, verging on disturbing. There was no sense of passage. One moment, you were walking into the portal. The next, you were standing still, staring into the yellow-stained porcelain abyss of a broken commode. It felt like blacking out. Losing time.

My thoughts were jumbled, disorderly. I had a hard time remembering what I was doing and why I was here. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened if there was someone in the bathroom occupying the same space I just appeared in.

Maybe that’s why they sent you to the broken stall, genius.

Oh good. was talking to me again. At least Nick didn’t—

I scrambled out of the stall, nearly tripping over my own feet until the open arm of a yellowing, cracked baby changer saved me. I needed to get out of the way before Nick appeared in the same place.

Jesus, I really needed to ask someone if telefragging was a thing.

Carefully, trying to mentally and physically reset, I threw the door open and walked out. The muffled bass grew sharper, but only just, and the scent of mildew, vomit, and liquor washed over me. There was a small bar housing only a dozen stools, with several booths along the left-hand side. At least five heavy-set men in a varying selection of baseball and cowboy hats turned my way. A sixth sat next to the jukebox, fiddling with a handful of quarters. Their suspicious gazes lingered on me for a moment too long, then turned away, settling on where Keith and Halima sat at the bar.

They looked old enough to join the army, but a bit too young to drink. Keith was clutching his wand beneath the bar, his knee bouncing up and down. Halima looked etched from stone.

Nick exited a moment later, nodded towards the door. Keith jumped off the stool immediately and followed him, Halima falling in behind them while I took up the rear.

A notification prompt popped open.

Quest: Ancient Blueprint

Initial Objective: Gain entrance to the Gilded Tower.

Primary Objective — Acquire at least twenty planners from ripples on the lower tower floors.

Secondary Objective — Acquire as many planners as possible.

Tertiary Objective — Avoid direct conflict in the tower and keep a low profile.

Threat Level: ???

EXP GAIN (M)

Time Limit: One Day

Reward: Selve, Hastur’s Favor, Market Credit (Variable.)

Fuck. What to do? We couldn’t fail this mission. Without knowing exactly what Hastur wanted the planners for, it would look bad and draw attention I didn’t want. At the very least, we needed the minimal amount. But I didn’t like the way the secondary objective was worded. More problematic, there were other teams from the order in play. I didn't know if they were looking for the same thing, or something more critical.

I needed to create problems for the Order on a large scale that didn’t immediately point to me, while succeeding in my mission, without succeeding too much.

Sometimes, I missed the scantron days.

We pushed open the doors out into the street. Miraculously, it was even louder outside the bar. I’d thought, given the theme park aesthetic, that the party-land bustle of region five would die down some after dark.

Not so much. They just doubled down on the torches.

It had a sweatier, hammering feeling beneath the moon. More like a nightclub than a theme park. Masses of bodies, dancing to a drum-heavy beat. A woman in glowing neon body paint and peacock regalia—an outfit that narrowly dodged blatant cultural appropriation, only by appropriating literally everything into an unrecognizable amalgam—paused as she passed by us, offering a tray furnished with colorful asymmetrical bottles complete with curly straws.

Spiked with 151. Casino tactics. Avoid.

I smacked Keith’s hand away and smiled at the woman. “We’re fine.”

“You’re in El Dorado, darlings. Live a little.” She pulled an eight ball from her corset and wiggled it in front of my face. The substance within was powdery and clay red. I waited for commentary.

Not a damn clue.

I took the bag from her—partially because I was curious, partially because I wanted her to leave without drawing more attention to us. I must have looked confused, because, as a helping hint, she tapped her nostril and winked before she sashayed away.

We took our place in the long queue to the front of the tower. It seemed even taller now than it had the evening I’d scouted the region with Miles, at least as tall as the Bank of America Plaza had been before the meteor reduced it to a smoking ruin. The question was whether it was an optical illusion, or the tower was actually growing.

I tapped my toe inside my boot, searching for an angle, coming up dry.

Nick elbowed me. “So, uh. You in the habit of taking illicit substances from strangers?”

“Relax, boy scout.” I scoffed and tossed him the eight ball. He caught it easily, squinting at the bag. “You ever see anything this color?”

“Saw some designer shit once that was bright green. But nothing quite like this.” Nick said.

“It looks like strawberry pixie stick.” Halima commented, completely seriously. She was standing on her tiptoes, trying to get a better look at the bag.

“You don’t snort those.” Keith said. He was still pouting, probably because I’d stopped him from taking the drink.

“Were you homeschooled?” Halima asked Keith.

“Seems kind of small time to me. Some girl slipped you a dime bag at a rager. Big whoop.” Nick said.

“She's not some girl. She's staff. And I’ve seen them pass out at least thirty of those bags since. Considering how they’re spiking their drinks with rum running around seventy-five percent ABV, I'm curious what exactly they’re pairing it with.” I said. Probably an upper—any depressant in combination with the rum was likely to zonk out a person with average tolerance—but considering how didn’t trigger, I was guessing it was system related.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You got a pedigree to go with that bloodhound nose?”

“I’m a fucking sommelier. What’s it matter?”

Keith cleared his throat. “I thought sommeliers were wine experts.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s cocaine stepped on with cayenne. Either way, I want to know where they’re getting this shit and how they can afford to give so much of it away.”

Nick finally shrugged. “Fair enough. Not sure I see the value, but I’m kind of slow. It’s important we stay ahead of the game. More than a few people back at HQ you could pass that off to. Some of ‘em might even give you a straight answer. A few might even give it back.” Nick passed the baggy back to me, and I stuck it in my inventory

Keith looked puzzled. “Is there a liquor version of a sommelier?”

“Why do you always look at me when you have a vocabulary question?” Halima sighed.

I was about to say something pithy about a bartender when a familiar face caught my eye. A man in a Hawaiian shirt was leaning on a pillar next to an old school vendor’s cart, biting into a churro.

Immediately, I turned my back to him, my heart pounding.

Cook. Shit.

I snuck another glance over my shoulder. The fed looked more or less recovered from our altercation, almost bored as he stared out into the crowd, nibbling on the churro with the slow, constant pace of a marathon runner.

Of course Miles stationed a lookout here. We scouted out the tower recently, and I ran my fucking mouth about how they were looking for something. I told myself it was fine. That Cook was focused on the exit. I’d need to be careful when we made our way out, but he hadn’t been exposed to the mask for an extended period. As long as I was cautious, and there wasn’t a shift change, I’d be fine.

But what if I wasn’t?

It all hit me at once. A thousand half-finished thoughts and ideas slid into place, a plan to stick the feds so far up the Order’s ass they wouldn’t know what hit them. Simultaneously, a way to create a future exit plan for Nick.

I had a narrow window, but it was there. Couldn’t risk it in a public space, with so many people to notice.

Several dozen messages arrived, one after another, each berating me for not reaching out sooner or bringing me up to speed. Apparently, Cameron was awake and pissed. He’d tried to muscle his way out and had to be gassed. Kinsley wasn’t taking any chances with the containment. Not long after, Miles came looking for me and she’d fed him a line. According to her, he probably bought it. Probably.

The latter brought up a pain point I still didn’t know how to deal with yet.

While the three-way altercation between the Ordinator, his unidentified companion, and the feds had bought me time, Miles was going to get suspicious, eventually. If I could use Azure from a distance—find some sort of mana battery that would let him keep his form for an extended period separate from me—that would more or less solve the problem.

But I’d relay that later. I had something more incendiary in mind.

I made a mental note to get that story from her later. I couldn't imagine someone getting that far into a vocation so early in the game, unless they had some sort of specialized background that translated.

:( >

I was banking a lot on faith. That Hastur would wait, hoping I would come around despite the disruption. He seemed desperate. And it took far longer than usual for desperate people to cut and run. I could only hope it was the same for gods.

In the meantime, I played the role the Overseer created for me. I crafted the message as quickly as I could, checked it three times, then sent it off. It was like writing an essay. An utterly psychopathic, problematic essay, but when you broke them down to their parts, all essays are the same.

Without missing a beat, I turned to Nick. “Not trying to step on your toes here, but wouldn’t it be better if we split up a bit?”

Nick’s eyebrows narrowed. “Never split the party—“

“I’m just talking initially. We enter separately, meet back up in whatever this gilded erection has for a lobby, split back up on the exit.”

Nick considered that, then nodded. “Smart. Better for optics. Never know who could be watching. Gonna go up front, keep the kids in the middle. You good to take up the rear?”

“Done.” I slid back through the line, ending up behind a couple of tough guys who sneered at me when I flagged down a shirtless man in a kilt for one of the festive-looking drinks on his tray. It gave me an excuse to move backwards in the line, and to be honest, I kind of enjoyed the potential visual it created.

Then I waited. If Miles was as smart as I thought, he’d figure it out with time to spare.

Twenty minutes later, just as I reached the front of the line, Cook’s head snapped up. He dropped the stub of his churro and took several steps forward, brow furrowed as he searched the sea faces with more intensity than before.

Eventually, his gaze landed on me.

I took a tiny suck from the looping straw, and flipped him the bird.