He walks towards the building. Even in the dark Fin can tell it’s been recently constructed by people wanting what the Lambers have to give. Fin is immune and in quiet moments wonders what it feels like. An intoxication? Maybe that’s why he can find them. In the skyline, to the west, the tower they taught Bloodroot how to build, the link to their homeworld. Nobody knows how it works, but then, they don’t need to. How many people know how electricity works? Just need to know that it works and how to use it.

The door is closer now; Duro still in the van, thinking Fin is in the back. Doesn’t matter. “Duro” means “wait” in Yoruba, so this is in line with the man’s destiny.

His gait slows as he reaches the door; nerves, unknown number of people in there, no way to predict their reactions to interruption from their ecstasies. But Fin is young and invulnerable, unable to contemplate his own failure, death or oblivion. Non-existence is a myth. The wind whips his coat, and Fin takes it off, folds it carefully and lays it on the ground to the left of the door. It opens outwards, so he knocks first. Nothing happens. No sounds in the night, no lights, no animals shuffling. The wind again, but it blows between buildings, whistling and ghosting.

Fin fits a Locksmith on the door and waits. It cycles through several frequencies until it hits the right one. The door swings open and he enters. Gentle lute music plays, the remnants of cooking on the air, something spicy. No real lighting, everything dim, so dim. From his back pocket, enhancer glasses – good for getting around, but poor for Lambers. He’ll have to remember to take them off. It’s warm in here, from heating, cooking and the bodies of the addicted. He’s on a hallway of some kind and he comes to the bottom of a stairwell. A figure lurches out of shadows under the stairs, and it heads for him and performs some kind of gesture between a bow and a duck. It repeats the action. And again. A robot, busted, no threat. Its lips move, but no sound comes out.

Fin takes the stairs, sensing the Lamber closer. A shuffle, and someone comes down the stairs, a human this time, saying nothing but staring at Fin. Blank face. Fin draws his other weapon, the rubber projectile one, and shoots the wall adjacent to the person. The ricochet hits the man in the foot, the second in the knee. Fin pulls the man behind him before he can cry out in pain. The sound, the air displacement, must attract attention of others unless they are too far down the Lamber hole.

His IFC buzzes. “Rasheed, where are you? I just heard a shot!”

Distraction. Fin kills notifications and climbs faster.