Cree expected to find himself alone in the dark alleyway, but some other soul had decided to shed the neon-rinsed darkness of the club for the calmer moonlit night.

They shared a glance, enough for Cree to trade his ennui and exhaustion for a glimpse of a thin nose, flashing eyes, a shock of green hair.

They pushed themselves up from the club’s brick wall, turning to return inside.

Cree breathed, priming his breath to speak. But before his voice could leave his mouth, they spun round, and pressed a finger to his lips.

Their eyes twinkled and beckoned him back into the crowd inside.

The touch smoldered like a memory on Cree’s lips. He followed.

Crossman came in to find the laborers milling around, chatting idly in the beautiful spring day.

He threw his hat to the ground, demanding an answer.

“Ropes been cut,” the laborers said.

He demanded an explanation.

“Cutty Soames,” they said, and shrugged.

In a rage he worked them like dogs for the next two weeks.

But then, on an expectation in the mines, there came a rumbling collapse. Crossman flailed as he fell, grabbing hold of a rope just before tumbling into the abyss.

“Help!” he called.

The laborers heard, peering over the edge.

“Pull me up!” he cried.

“Cutty Soames,” they said, and shrugged.

“It’s funny, you know,” said Cohen, crawling up from beneath his desk. He pulled up the dead cable behind him, like a snake by its tail.

“Sure is,” said Aya, reclining in her office chair.

“Seems like it only really started once those layoffs started.”

“Fancy that,” said Aya, again.

“Great coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” said Aya. “Want lunch?” she asked, rolling over her ethernet cable with her office chair.