Yasahama's skin crawls he imagines the delicate scales shrivelling up like the posters despite the EPP on his hip. Adverts, bills, wanted posters and graffiti coat the walls, stained and peeling. The overheads flicker, the light seeping in from outside painting everything a toxic green. Yasahama nods, follows close behind Oganesson as the latter leads the way along cramped corridors. Novakid aren't the most facially expressive of races, but Yasahama feels he's on the receiving end of a feral grin. Oganesson puts a hand on Yasahama's shoulder. Yasahama makes the mistake of leaning against the railing, pulling sharply back as it gives under his weight, as rusty and used-up as the rest of this hell-hole. Under the general babble of conversation and the hum of faulty neon, the ventilation clanks air scrubbers, never serviced, struggle to filter poison out of the air. ![]() The stairwell concertinas down into dimness, the stairs rusting and slick with condensation. "It ain't here, it can't be found," Oganesson says, tracking the flow of people as they come out onto a landing. The blue novakid thumbs at his brand, affecting a sniff. "You're sure I can find what I'm looking for here?" he asks his companion, as the pair leave the teleporter and weave into the flow of misfits and ne'er-do-wells. Yasahama pulls the wide brim of his hat down further over his trio of ruby eyes, pops the collar of his borrowed jacket.
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