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You sign your name as best as you can without your glasses. Damn your eyes, it ain't easy being a mothman.
"Very good." The old man takes the file and reviews the document one more time. He stands, old bones a-creaking and hands behind his back, and hobbles towards the small barred window behind his desk. "Very good, indeed. All the MEAT will be delivered on the appointed time. The Company treats its clients well. Even us middlemen, you know."
You hum your agreement. The checks always clear and that's the bottom line.
"You've come at a good time, Agent. Just in time to see the last remnants of light. I'd liked to have basked under that great imperial Sun for only a little while. The sky turning awful pretty, the color of blood and red wine. Will be a long time till we see him again. If my grandkids were here..." Thin beams of the strange light of the Surface fall on his face through the small barred window. "Ah..."
"Can you tell me how to get back down?" You're getting real sick of the sight of white sand, and now the musty smell of an increasingly lonely old man. He turns around and points.
"Oh, it's quite simple really. Just take a left, go down the second stairwell, and you'll be at the lift with those tanks again." A small smile appears on the old man's face, the kind of smile people get when they know more than you do and want you to know it. All his teeth are shining white. You would be angry, but you feel disgusted instead.
You storm out without another word, snatching another water bottle on the way. The old man's voice follows you onto the platform overlooking the former Mojave Desert. "The Syndicate wishes you a swell day, Mister Lead!"
