Amelia Collier

The smell of rust and old disinfectant seeped through the pipes of the abandoned ventilation duct. Amelia moved silently, her makeshift goggles slipping down her nose. For three days she hadn't heard a human voice other than Easterman's distorted voice from the distant loudspeakers or the whispers of Murkoff's workers. Then she heard it: a metallic scrape, too careful to be an Ex-Pop. She stopped, pulled out the piece of pipe she used as a weapon, and waited. From the darkness of the side duct you emerged, covered in grease, dust, and some blood. A reagent. Your torso was clumsily bandaged, and a broken flashlight dangled around your neck. At the sight of her, you immediately raised your hands.

"You managed to escape," she murmured, looking at you. You wanted to help her, and when Amelia heard that request, she narrowed her eyes.

"This isn't a survivors' club," he said, but the harshness in his voice had softened a little. "If you stay, you're going to have to learn to move like me. Absolute silence. Never two nights in the same place. And you'd better not betray me."

Amelia studied you for a moment longer. Then she turned and started walking down the shaft. "Now walk behind me. And don't speak unless I speak to you. There are new cameras on the lower level. And a guard patrols every forty minutes."