text: [Themes: Olfactory Noir]
  
  > look at your surroundings
  Sob Street runs along the waterfront, a bank of grey fog to the east. Purple light glowers from a narrow alleyway set in the wall of hulking warehouses. One of those old info-gloops is mounted near the alley entrance. To the south, Sob Street deepens.
  
  > go south
  Streetlamps cast cool light on the street. Below your feet, a storm drain sings a ghostly song. To the south, a gap in the buildings gives a view of the Meringue Dumpyard. To the east, you see Club Coccyx, spelled out in dead neon. Everything else is boarded up, closed, caged, black glass.
  
  You can see some chalice city songers here.
  
  > Smell drain
  You travel through the cold guts of the city, through the the dark places. You feel a dead rat tumble through your viscera, followed by mangled trash, then streams of puke. Then you exhale that trip out your mouth and you're back in your own skin.
  
  > examine the songers
  Leprous street saints that sing for a living, and pray for a dying. The rot of their skin is like lichen on wax.
  
  > Smell songers
  Dead skin fermenting under bandages. Old moonlight. Vinyl shavings. You catch a whiff of larceny, but fuck it, you're off-duty.
  
  > talk to the songers
  [If you're trying to talk to someone, you might try ASK SONGERS ABOUT something, the traditional conversation syntax. Type ABOUT to see if this story offers more detailed instructions for conversation.]
  
  > Down
  You can't go that way.
  
  [From here, you can go north, south and east.]
  
  > Go south
  The chalice city songers start to croon. Their boombox percusses backing beats that snarl, warp, thrash, crash, thud against the air, rattle the windows.
  Their sounds are vibrant, melodic, but the notes wash over you like an arctic breeze, because you've always been insensate to the musical realm.
  
  > go to the south
  This used to be an alley, now it's a cusp of concrete looking out on a dizzying drop. The Meringue Dumpyard sprawls for miles into the exposed heart of the earth. Back in dynasty days, this was downtown. Now it's a low, dead, dark place, a post-apocalyptic quarry.
  
  > look at what you're carrying with you
  You are carrying:
  an aboro qihilus
  a loan lantern
  a jacket (being worn)
  a mobile phone
  a wallet
  a film capsule
  
  > go south
  You can't go that way.
  
  [The only way to go is north.]
  
  > go north
  Streetlamps cast cool light on the street. Below your feet, a storm drain sings a ghostly song. To the south, a gap in the buildings gives a view of the Meringue Dumpyard. To the east, you see Club Coccyx, spelled out in dead neon. Everything else is boarded up, closed, caged, black glass.
  
  You can see some chalice city songers here.
  
  > go east
  Stale alcohol bites the air and sticks to your shoes. Just a dim joint with no customers, chairs all lined up against the wall. A very tall man is standing by a deep red door against the east wall, just past the bar.
  
  > examine man
  You'd call him an ugly customer, but he looks like staff of some sort. What's to say? He ain't winnin' no beauty pageants. BUT DON'T SAY THAT TO HIS FACE
  
  > smell man
  He's wearing that weird cologne people sell these days that supposedly masks you from the smell detectives. Doesn't seem to work though, because you smell a whole lotta crime on this guy, so much of it that it blends together like a bad soup, all the flavors muddled and indistinct.
  
  > ask the man about himself
  He grunts.
  
  > examine the door
  Whadda they call this kind of red? Burgundy? Oxblood? Ah, forget it.
  
  > Smell door
  This door came from overseas, where they still have forests, and not just little viewing stations for lone trees buried inside iron bells. You smell memories of blood on the door but that could just be a fresh coat of paint. If the paint in question is blood, that is.
  
  > open door
  The guy at the door says, "You the crooked cop?"
  1 - "Yeah, they think it might be scoliosis."
  2 - "Step aside for royalty, pally."
  3 - "Uh, sorry. Musta took a wrong turn. Yeah, that's it. A wrong turn..." *mumble incoherently sweatin' fat globules*
  
  > 1
  "Comedy. That's a real gift." He sounds entirely sarcastic, but begrudgingly opens the door for you.
  
  A candle-laden table glows in the midst of darkness. Cards soaked in gin, a dagger stabbed into the wood, mounds of money. Two figures (one fat, the other lean) are at the table, counting coins.
  
  You take a seat. Eternal Hog smiles at you. "Hey there, ladybuck."
  
  You flick the capsule at Hog. "Everything on Olympia that can be got for blood or money. In this case, I'll take the money."
  
  Eternal Hog slides a billfold across the table. You slip the cash inside your wallet.
  
  He sits back. "We need one final favor before we leave. Papyrus from the sea tombs. The ministry dug them up last night." You blink. "Yeah, the erogater was looking through them today." He leans forward, licking his lips. "The scrolls are in your department? You can get them by tonight?"
  
  You spread your hands. "Tonight? That's a tall order." He furrows his brow. "We just need the chart. We don't care about the rest of the scrolls. Please."
  
  Antagonistic James raps the table. The crash of his fist knocks the sound from the air. He breathes deeply, the bristles on his moustache flaring outwards. "Enough squabbing. I feel the noose tightening around my neck. If we don't have the chart by midnight, we cast off."
  
  Eternal Hog smiles beatifically. "My unmannered friend is correct, sadly. The more scrupulous members of your department are closing in on us. Our joint down on Neat Street is getting a lot of heat. Could be arthritis, but I doubt it. Only a matter of time before they connect the don't's and burst into this very room."
  
  He sighs. "If you fetch us the chart before midnight, we will make you very rich. I anticipate your return, dear lady, knowing you to be wise and resourceful." They resume counting their money.