Throbbing, unceasing pain — sometimes stabbing. It's like the other two are driving nails into Waylon's temple with a sledgehammer. Ivan and Thea plod along, whispering in the dark somewhere behind him. Keeping themselves distracted from anything important.

Waylon runs a hand overtop of a pipe's chipping paint. This one can direct him all the way to the door he's looking for: the entrance to the service area of the penguin enclosure. At least those two are keeping up.

They're still talking, but he needs them to focus now. "We're almost there." He calls back.

Ivan and Thea ignore him, choosing to keep their hushed conversation going as if he had said nothing at all. Something about wrestling if he's hearing the words right.

Waylon grits his teeth. What did he do wrong? Every heist movie has a hard-ass, stoic type that tries to keep the team on track. Whatever. Phil was the people person.

This door is different than the rest in the aquarium: solid stainless steel polished to a sheen; no handle, but a touch pad set into the concrete beside it with numbers blazing green. He bears down on his already grinding teeth. The intelligence packet didn't mention this. Probably some direction from Albert to leave it out; just another inane test for some greater purpose he doesn't want a part of.

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Ivan rolls to a stop nearby with Thea close behind. "What's this? Didn't know everything after all, huh?"

Waylon kneels down in front of the door and jerks a sleeve up his forearm. "It's our employers fault, nothing to do with me. It's fine. There's probably a manual release on the other side."

"So as long as it's you everything's peachy, but none of us are allowed to make a mistake? Cute."

Waylon glares over his shoulder at Ivan, his own eyes of murky brown meeting Ivan's piercing blue. "Do we have to—"

Thea squeaks past the giant and plants herself and her cane between them. "E-excuse me. There's another— " She sniffs again, but all her confidence disappears. She bats a hand and shrivels into herself like a deflating, wacky-armed tube man. "Oh! Sorry, never mind. It's nothing. I'm sorry."

Pain flares; Waylon's teeth grind under the invisible pressure. "What is it?" He says.

"Sorry — it's nothing. Really. Animals are a bit hard to differentiate sometimes."

He lets his head fall forward against the door. Yet another surprise.

Green light bathes the space: the touch pad burns to life and its number pad is gone. Instead, it now displays an empty rectangle with a green outline. About the size and shape of an ID card. Then the pad speaks.

"Hello, and welcome, New User(s). Please state your name and place your credentials against the pad, face down." It says. Each word echoes down the hallway, pleasant-sounding, yet terrifying all the same.