They have been wandering the subterranean tunnels for two days now, scrawling crude grid-maps that always turn out wrong. Black Dougal complains about the iron rations, and Silverleaf is gaunt from lack of daylight. Slagjor’s body lies under a crude cairn two levels up. Even Crucible is beginning to tire.

“Let us click the key fob again,” intones Silverleaf.

“I already tried it in this area,” says Black Dougal. “And what if its battery runs out?”

“It shall not be.”

“It might!”

Crucible scans the empty rows of parking spaces, clockwork heart sinking, wishing he’d just written the damn number down.