>Meet Fuckface

So you go. Richard steps out of his office-thingy, looks both ways, and gestures for you to follow. His office-thingy has another next to it, and another next to that, and on and on, out of sight: as you hurry past, you discover that most are unoccupied. A glancing few house scaly heads bent over glowing boxes: the agents clack away on their typewriters, or else they yammer away to nobody. Have they found the Crown in their realities? Have they put up shop in some poor sap's head? Will that poor sap ever, ever, ever discover a fraction of what you know now?

At least there's less poor saps then there used to be, from the looks of it. Were a bunch of Correspondents recycled recently?

«No.»

...Then where are they?

«It doesn't matter. Keep walking.»

You'd think Richard would learn by now: with an answer like that, you can't not wonder. When you reach at last the end of the "cubes," the path goes straight and to the right. Richard continues straight, but there are noises to the right, loud convivial lizard-noises, and you duck off to the right. It's simple to locate these noises' source: an open door, and, inside, a whole gaggle of Correspondents. So that's where they went! They appear to be throwing a party.

Aww. Did Richard not get invited? Is that why he didn't want to tell you? Your curiosity sated, you make to head back, but catch a stray phrase from the crowd: "...Herald in short order..."

Herald! That's you! What is the party for, anyways? Surely agents don't celebrate birthday, or holidays, and you think recyclings happen without warning. The crowd is crowded around someone, though: a light brown, blocky-looking Correspondent, busy receiving a round of backslaps. It's hard to make him out— or it, or whatever— over the din: "...couldn't have done it without... look forward to... yes, the Object is... not seen the Herald yet, but..."

»What are you >doing<.«
»What did I >say< about sightseeing.«

Richard grabs the bow around your neck and yanks you, stumbling, back to the left. You weren't sightseeing. You were investigating a very important-seeming party, in which people were talking about the Herald, i.e. you, and— does he know the brown Correspondent? With the square sort of head? Because it seemed like a lot of the attendees were paying attention to him, and...

»Fuckface.«
»We are not dwelling on this. Keep moving.«

Wait. That was Richard's sworn nemesis? He didn't look very evil— you liked his patterned tie. So the party was for... wait, wait, wait. You're in the future! Did him and Jean Ramsey win? Is that a— a— a victory—

»A premature one. This is irrelevant.«

It blatantly is not, Richard! He needs to tell you whether you're doomed or not!

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