The worker is in a deep slumber.

The worker is in a deep slumber.

"Lieutenant, who is this?"

"No idea. Looks like he works for Wild Pines, the logistics company who owns and operates the harbour."

"But why is he sleeping during the day?"

"Possibly because there's a strike going on in the harbour. There's not much to do -- aside from drinking and sleeping."

Pick up the pills.

The man does not mind. You probably need them more than he does.

You’ve just picked up some MAGNESIUM. This item is stored in the bottom left corner of the screen, above your character portrait. Use MAGNESIUM to heal your Morale, if you have Morale damage.

Steal the dockworker's ID.

Your fingers find their way into the shackle, flicking open its spring-loaded gate. The metal loop holds the plastic ID, and a leather-bound pocketbook...

And the man?

The man emits a loud snore. Is he about to wake up? Doesn't look like it, but you never know. Better be quick!

Are you positive that what you're doing here is proper police conduct? You can still leave and do nothing.

Swipe through the pocketbook and take what's inside.

You find a black paper note with a woman's profile on it. Seems like this woman lived centuries ago. The note says five reál. It feels nice and greasy.

Yum, yum. Money. Think of all the things you can buy with this. The synapses in your brain fire with glee.

You don't really know what it's for, but you get the feeling notes like these are super important -- you should keep it.

Does the lieutenant see me?

No. He's looking the other way -- perhaps purposefully.

Close the carabiner.

The sleeping dockworker has little to say about your actions. He remains silent.

You're not 100% clear what you did here was right, but to hell with it...

Steal the document.

You slip the plastic ID card out of the loop and pocket it. The man continues to snore.

Just for the record, you look nothing like the man on the document.

You fumble with the spring-loaded gate of the carabiner, but to no avail... the dangling items refuse to come loose, they just jingle in an ever louder manner.

Like fucking sleigh bells! What are you doing, you're gonna get caught!

"Stop finger-fucking him, officer!" The cafeteria manager shouts from behind the counter. "I'm responsible for these oafs and their stuff. Even Sleepy there..."

"What, no, I wasn't.... I'm just checking if the man is feeling okay."

"Yeah, sure! I don't care. Just don't finger-bang his stuff, okay!" He snorts angrily, then turns back to his activities.

"To be honest, he is correct. Police officers generally don't go around appropriating possessions from people. Let's go."

It was just an idea, c'mon. Relax, everyone. It didn't turn out well -- doesn't mean it was a bad idea. Or that you shouldn't appropriate stuff...

"You stay out of this, bartender!"

"Fine -- fine! Finger-bang him then, I don't care." He snorts angrily, then turns back to his activities.

"We might be dealing with a criminal here. Let me work."

"Yes. Sure. A criminal." He rolls his eyes, then turns back to his activities.

Inspect the piece of plastic on his carabiner.

It's a dockworker's ID, doubling as a shift card and a job permit. A young, able-bodied man stares back at you from the photo: Santiago S. John.

Wake him up.

There is only one way to awake this bone idle from his slumber. Roar like a hurricane, rip the buildings from the Earth!

(No words, just a primordial scream.)

"Why the yelling, man?" The 30-something man slowly lifts his head and gives you a pensive look.

Looks like a Sao descendant. A lot of Sao dockworkers around.

"I just wanted to see what would happen if I yelled."

"Congratulations, you have seen the future. Now if you excuse me again, officer..." The worker sinks back onto the table, ready to continue his nap.

Officer? Even after a rude awakening -- this dockworker respects the police. More than they usually do at least.

"Alright, I'll let you sleep." [Leave.]

The dockworker doesn't answer, his head is already back down on the table. In sweet sleep.

"Why are you sleeping here while the others are out striking?"

"They got it. Measurehead's got it, he's guarding the gate. I'm just getting some sleep. Or was..."

The way he says "Measurehead" implies ultimate trust in this head-reckoner's physical prowess.

The way he says "Measurehead" implies ultimate trust in this head-reckoner's physical prowess. He seems like a worthy rival. You should slay him.

"See anything interesting in your dreams?"

"Thank god, no."

"Was it a fathomless darkness into which we ought to be deferred, like corpses to a mausoleum?"

The worker stares at you, his eyes dry from sleep. A web of wrinkles covers his tanned forehead.

"I don't know what you're talking about, kind sir, but when I'm out, then I'm really out. No corpses. No mausoleums. Just quality-time."

A little me-time in the abyssopelagic zone... you can never return to it now. Only detective-work remains. Wakefulness and detection.

Fuck sleep. Despite the headache -- and the queasiness -- you feel like you've got at least a ten kilometre run in you.

"Was it pure nothing, your consciousness no larger than a single grain of malt?"