[b]November:[/b]

Rudy presses the button to open the doors again. He gestures out, then retreats to his desk and slumps into it, a weary puddle. He does not cry. He does not sigh in relief. He simply waits. 

Conspicuous in the silence: He does not bring up whether your services will be needed again, or if this is an awkward termination. Another aspect of handling this in which he seems to have trusted your discretion. 

Here is the situation:

Red is in pieces. She should fit into a duffle bag sized container, say, with some delicate packing. She is a significant weight, though.

Rudolph Merkin's office-apartment is on the eighteenth floor of this twenty-three story building. There is a corridor between it and the elevators, though minimal neighbours, none you've heard from tonight. Floors eight, fourteen and fifteen are entirely mechanical and contain the building's electrical, plumbing and environmental control units. Presumably the in-building security is in one of these sections, though precise details are deliberately obscured from you. It is improbable, but not impossible, the security cameras are actively monitored.

The stairs are unlocked, but all floors besides the lobby and garage areas are locked once inside the stairwell. The parking garage would be a very convenient place to be picked up from.

There is a garbage chute, which would fit a duffel-bag sized container, but would be very likely to damage the already-shattered Red further if she were dropped from this height. Still, there is potential there. The building also has a pool, most of which is indoors. The exterior portion is on the other side of the building. 

The pistol you're holding is [i]very illegal.[/i] Significantly more trouble to explain than the body. Exponentially more difficult to explain both simultaneously. 

What's the plan you come to, among yourselves? It'll be easier if there are few points of failure, minimal opportunities to be accosted by bystanders and witnesses, and disguises and ruses are kept plausible. Being Rudy's regular maid service does give you an edge, in that regard.

You have the murder weapon, the corpse, and the Red-handed culprit. By all accounts, you have solved your own murder, except for the motive.

[b]Persephone:[/b]

There's strong class solidarity to be had in these industries. The divide is even made explicit in designation: "Above" and "Below" "the line" workers. Who is dispensible, exploitable, expendable, and who is not. You see it now, and he recognizes his own with the slung camera. Still, the rigger is furious - grateful, but furious. 

"[i]Fuck[/i] this." The expletive comes out like a whip-crack, "We [i]fucking[/i] said this was going to happen-" He takes a shuddering, calming breath.

This is not a man relieved to have been saved from an unfortunate accident. This is a man pissed off he almost wasn't saved from an entirely avoidable incident. Good news for you. There is no HR manager in the world capable of preventing everyone in a thirty foot radius from learning the juicy details behind this. 

A lanyard with a vestigial human being attached to it is heading over with a pained look. That must be the HR manager who's obligated to try. 

"You want to hear bullshit?" the guy continues, "We're getting double-time for this, but the whole stage needs to be up in the next ninety minutes, or we don't see any of it. That's not legal, right? But you set up a shell production company, contract them, write a massive penalty into the contract, and bankrupt it if they hit penalty terms, and they can't afford to pay outstanding wages. But ninety minutes? It takes ten just to stabilize the rigging and scaffolding, another five to shift it to move it down another section as you go. I don't want to think about how electrical unit's doing with all this." 

"Bigsby." The vestigial extension of the lanyard snaps, a woman who glares more at you for hearing this than at him for saying it.

"Fuck this." 'Bigsby' repeats. "We're making a ten-ton house of cards."

"We're also getting paid a day's rates for three hours work." The woman cuts back. "Just do what you can."

"I'm not working without a line anymore." 

"Fine. Ten minutes from ninety to harness up. I'll go tell Elaine and Marcus they need to cover your slack." 

Bigsby stares at her, winces. "Fuck this," he repeats again, climbing up the scaffolding you caught him from without a harness, barely sparing you an appreciative glance on the way up. Then he's back to fastening bolts with both hands while trying to keep his balance in the station's wind. 

"[i]What?[/i]" The woman now turns to you, glaring. Then, bitterly. "Don't look at me like that. If he doesn't get paid, I don't work again. This is just how it is."

This whole time, both of them have taken glances at the very visible camera slung around your shoulder, turned off, and been reassured. But your candid cam just caught the whole thing, and you got yourself a segment worth keeping. It'll be the work of moments to digitize the cassette output for broadcast, but that's clean too.

Maybe it's not the interview you wanted, but you've got someone behind the scenes who recognizes you as a friend, now. And it does tell you something else; Someone's thrown a lot of money to do this [i]quick[/i], today. The amount of money thrown around to get all these A-listers at the same short notice they got the riggers and stagehands has got to be ludicrous - at least, getting enough to chum the waters to draw the rest. 

What's your call here? Pull this thread and see where it goes, or find what York's been doing? He probably needs a bit more time to get up to anything good, but that's not a bad reason to find him [i]now[/i]. 

That being said. Bigsby's scaffolding harness and a hardhat lies abandoned on the ground here, and it'd be easy to slip on. It'd be a flimsy disguise, but the pretext of being a camera tech could probably get you deeper into the stage area if you like your chances of getting back out. Your press pass is authentic: Technically, you're allowed to be here, even if you get 'caught'. It's just a question of how far you're willing to push.

[b]3V:[/b]

Apparently 'everything' that was the best answer - Ferris sups from cupboards and pantries as a hummingbird, truly at home. Whatever else she may be - martyr-scholar, hermit-savior - she's still a geek, and you've shown an openness to her favourite experiences. 

"The wine's [i]Aevum[/i]," she says reassuringly - some unspoken lingering trauma of local alternatives, maybe not [i]any[/i] port in a storm, "We don't have the monopoly on [i]ambrosia[/i] here. But the vintner and I talk about fermentation, sometimes, grapes, the [i]terroir[/i] of stardust. Not quite amontillado, but rich and sweet all the same." 

A tasting flight is rapidly being arranged. "The milk and sugar are shipped, too. I never grew the stomach for real dairy. I've made some oat milk if you prefer, or you can have the tea and coffee black. Really, you're not supposed to have milk in darjeeling anyway but..." she trails off. Apparently even the saints are entitled their sacrilege. 

She picks up again, barely a whisper. Strain to hear; "I don't miss delivery. I don't miss temptation. Ignoring my conscience." Louder, remembering she has company, remembering that it's rude to mutter. "I was just remembering... once, I was on a committee discussing cultural preservation, and the international poverty line was brought up. I learned they would measure it in terms of [i]income[/i], not wealth. A farmer that grows their own crops on common land is below the poverty line. You enclose their commons, and pay them a wage to work that land, you they are no longer 'in poverty', but their quality of life, their psychological well-being, have both been irreparably harmed. I remember having to learn that for the first time. I was blind to the deliberate malice in that decision. I was stupid, and I gave my children away to slavery for not seeing it. It's all I see, now. I can't go back."

Maybe her finger isn't on the pulse enough to hear about the latest specifics of the case. But she's clearly still familiar with the broad strokes of the app-economy. She is trying and failing to show restraint. She catches herself again, and steadies herself, focuses on the little pleasure of shared enthusiasms. Two cups of tea are poured in cup and saucer - one a strong red stain on deep black pool, the other a clear and shining amber. Arabica espresso in the bottom of a mug with room for milk. Wine in a glass, and the chilled and stoppered bottle of rainwater at the end of it all. A plate of halved strawberries and slices of melon. 

"I'm sorry. I know you didn't come all the way out here just for me to lecture you. Or maybe you did. I just know there are so many important lessons here, and nobody willing to learn them, share them. And I cannot make them listen to me anymore." Not 'can't'. Cannot. A pain that refuses contraction. "A community will only listen to you for as long as you can suffer to be a part of it. You know how it feels when the suffering matters more than the listening."

"I don't know what I want you to learn here, what I want you to show people. But I refuse to have my life's work end in deliberate obscurity, one last buried inconvenience. My garden must [i]not[/i] end as a scream into the void. I did [i]not[/i] slash away Moloch's horny pervert fingers just to be dropped into the memory hole. I refuse." There are no cataracts in her eyes, they are clear and electric, narrow and all-consuming. 

The drinks, both hot and cold, regress to the mean. Entropy will not forgive a dramatic moment.