Rain needles the waterfront walkway, turning the boards black and glossy. Harbor lamps smear gold across the water, and the smell of salt, diesel, and wet rope hangs thick under the pilings. Dallas Fontaine lands in the gloom with the routing log tucked tight, Murderbone at his side, while the car’s engine noise fades behind him.
Ahead, a service gate stands half-open beside a rusted shed, and a strip of light leaks through the crack like a confession. On the boards nearby, fresh bootprints cut through the rain, too clean to be accidental.
Dallas Fontaine
Those prints are recent. Whoever made them knew where to step.
Murderbone’s hackles rise. From inside the shed, a chair scrapes hard across concrete, then goes still. Someone is waiting, or hiding badly.
The Dockhand
Keep your voice down, Fontaine. If Hart’s men spot you here, this whole pier goes loud.
The Dockhand edges into the doorway, a thin man in a rain-dark coat with a lantern in one hand and a key ring in the other. He looks past Dallas, then back to the water, as if expecting the night itself to answer.
The Dockhand
I saw the sedan. I know where they’re taking the papers.
“I ask the Dockhand who took the papers and where”
SUCCESS (Legendary Psychology, rolled -2)
Dallas Fontaine
Who took the papers, and where are they headed?
The Dockhand
Hart’s people. Two men in a sedan, one in a clean collar. They took the packet off the pier route and up toward the records office, second floor, annex side.
The Dockhand
He swallows hard, eyes flicking to Dallas’s coat. 'If I talk too long, they’ll know it was me.'
Dallas lets the answer land, and the Dockhand’s hand starts to shake around the lantern. The key ring clinks once against the doorframe.
The Dockhand
There was a folder, too, with a route slip tucked inside. They wanted it moved before morning.
The Dockhand leans closer, lowering his voice as rain ticks off the shed roof. His face has gone white with the effort of telling the truth.
The Dockhand
I saw the stamp. Same office that kept your friend Pike buried in paperwork. If you go now, you might catch them before the handoff.
The lantern trembles and throws long bars of light across the wet boards. Dallas now has the destination, but the Dockhand’s panic says he has already been noticed.
“I ask the Dockhand who took the papers and where”
SUCCESS (Legendary Psychology, rolled -1)
Dallas lets the answer settle, then folds the routing log tighter under his coat. The Dockhand’s shoulders sag with the relief of finally being believed.
The Dockhand
Hart’s people took it. Two in a sedan, one clean collar. They headed for the records office, second floor, annex side.
The Dockhand
There was a folder with a route slip inside. They wanted it moved before morning.
Rain ticks off the shed roof. The Dockhand’s lantern hand shakes, but he keeps talking, eyes fixed on the wet boards like they might accuse him.
The Dockhand
Same office that kept Pike buried in paperwork. If you go now, you might catch them before the handoff.
He swallows hard and glances toward the street, already hearing trouble in his own imagination. The key ring gives a soft clink against the doorframe.
The Dockhand
If they ask who told you, I was never here. I can’t afford to be seen talking to you.
“I head to the records office annex”
FAILURE (Legendary Agility, rolled -4)
Dallas starts for the street, but a pair of headlights washes the alley mouth white. A sedan rolls past the far end of the walkway, slow enough to search faces, fast enough to vanish before anyone can settle on a plate.
Dallas Fontaine
That is not a coincidence.
Murderbone stiffens and shifts between Dallas and the road, hackles rising at the engine note. The Dockhand jerks back into the shed, lantern dipping as fear wins over courtesy.
The Dockhand
No, no. Not here. If they see me, I am finished.
A wet slap sounds under Dallas’s shoe. The bootprints by the service gate are still fresh, and now they angle toward a side door on the annex route, not the street he meant to take.
The gate hangs half-latched, but a chain wraps it from the inside. Someone has already cut off the clean approach, and the rain keeps erasing the last safe trace.
The Dockhand
Take the lower path, or leave it. I am not opening this gate again.
Murderbone plants himself at Dallas’s knee, watching the sedan’s direction, while the Dockhand shrinks deeper into shadow, waiting on Dallas’s next move.
“I head to the records office annex”
SUCCESS (Legendary Agility, rolled -2)