When Sasha walks into his office the following Monday morning, he expects to see a pile of petty case reports on his desk. He does not expect to see one of his superiors sitting beside the typical pile, staring him down like a bull about to charge.

"Where have you been?"

"Agent Mux," Sasha replies, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto the sofa. "If this is about the incident with the confusion grenades-"

"It's not," she says, climbing to her feet. "The whole point of issuing you a phone was so that you would answer it when we need you."

"Ah…" Sasha pats his pockets. Cigarettes, wallet, keys… No phone. Curious. "I must have left it at home."

"Load of good it does you there," she says, rolling her eyes. "You're not some baby-faced cadet, Nein. Zanotto wanted you in his office an hour ago. You have to be on top of these things."

"I am aware," he says. "Are you here just to relay that message?"

"That and to hand off the file." She snaps her fingers and the folder floats toward him. He takes it, thumbs through the contents, and lands on identification photos of two Psychonauts - one male, one female, only vaguely familiar at best. "Two agents have gone missing, Kirscht and Taborsky. We haven't heard from them in three days and we're beginning to get concerned."

"Were they on a case?"

"A series of dock fires about twenty miles south of Seattle, Washington. Suspected to be your average pyrokinetic punk, pretty routine. They were last seen leaving the hotel to investigate the scene, but they never made it to their destination."

"Should Agent Vodello be involved in this investigation?"

"That's up to you, Nein," Mux says. "You know our policy on backup. I suggest you use any resources you have at your disposal."

"What should I do with my current cases?" he asks, closing the folder and tucking it beneath his arm.

"Any cases you are currently on will be reassigned," she says. "Drop them off on my desk before you leave. Your flight leaves at noon."

Sasha manages to track down Milla in the herbaphony hall, sat in one of the few sunny spots not occupied by a fern or flower. She has an obscenely large beverage perched on the edge of the table. It's something blended, cold, smothered in whipped cream and syrup. She's reading over a report, lightly drumming a pen against the table, looking like she belongs in a shopping mall rather than government agency.

She looks up as he approaches and flashes him a smile. Her eyes have a glassy quality to them, though her makeup is too precise for her to have been crying. "Ah, sweetheart! I was just thinking of seeing you."

"Did something happen?" he asks. "You look… off."

"Hm? No, no, I'm fine," she says, waving her hand. "I had some funky dreams last night, but not my kind of funky, you know? But let's not talk about that, darling. I have a present for you!"

"A present?"

"Close your eyes," she says. She leans over to rummage through her bag, and he obliges, shielding his eyes with the case folder. "Ready!"

He drops the folder to the table and finds his phone floating a few inches away from his face.

"I found it under my sofa," Milla says, grinning as he plucks it from the air. "That and one of your socks. How did you leave with only one sock?"

"I left with no socks." He flips the phone open and clears out the missed calls. "We have a case. Missing agents in Seattle. Take your current cases over to Mux. I'll brief you on the flight over."

Approximately six miles above Lake Oblongata, Milla runs a finger down the edge of Agent Taborsky's photo. "There's something not right about this, Sasha."

The commercial flight booked by HQ is cramped and stuffy, but the buzz of a few hundred people packed like sardines affords the pair a sense of privacy. Milla has the window seat, the case report spread out upon her tray table, while Sasha has the aisle. His knees dig into the seat in front of him.

"We have nothing to go on," he says, tearing into a packet of complementary pretzels. "They were both model agents. No histories of violent or erratic behavior. No overt signs of dissatisfaction with their lives. They either staged the disappearance or ran into something sinister."

"I doubt they staged it." Milla sighs and props her head up on her hand. "They didn't get on well."

"You know them?"

"We worked with Agent Kirscht on that mission in Argentina," she says. "And Alena's office is literally two doors down from yours."

"Proximity means nothing to me, Milla."

"Darling, you know that's not the point," she says, rolling her eyes. "You've met them before. It couldn't hurt to socialize a bit, file away a few extra notes in those shoe boxes of your mind."

"I don't have space in my shoe boxes for a few extra notes," he says. "They are already filled. With shoes. And this tangent brings nothing to the case."

"You're a psychoanalyst, Sasha. Knowing people is your job."

"My job - our job is to find the agents," he says. "And if something did happen to them, we might still be able to pick up some lingering trace of their distress."

"Hopefully" Milla says, tucking the reports into the folder. She leans back in her seat and glances out at the minuscule buildings passing below them. "We need something to go on."

Sasha and Milla arrive at the docks at half past five in a rented beige sedan that reeks of crayons and sour milk. It was the only inconspicuous vehicle in the lot. The man behind the rental counter had argued the the smell would work as a surprisingly effective theft deterrent, but Sasha still made him take twenty percent off of the initial cost.

They split up to scan the area. Milla takes to the skies, cloaked in invisibility, while Sasha walks out to the docks. It affords him the opportunity to light up a cigarette and stretch his legs. The place is all but abandoned, save for the screeching gulls overhead and a few vessels lazily bobbing out on the water. It's a soothing scene, and whether it's the jet lag or a lack of caffeine, Sasha feels about ready to drop.

A slight tug at the edges of his thoughts makes him turn. The air above a nearby warehouse shimmers, like the haze on a long stretch of desert road. "Milla?"

"Someone has followed us," she sends back. His gaze falls on a black car parked about a hundred feet behind theirs. "It could be a coincidence, but stay on alert."

He nods and drops his cigarette, crushing it underfoot as he makes his way back inland. The mystery car reverses and speeds out of the lot, leaving nothing but a spray of gravel in its wake. "Completely not suspicious."

Milla drops down beside him, casting off her invisibility and crossing her arms. "I don't like this, Sasha. Whoever that was, their mind is an absolute fortress."

"Hm." He files the thought away for later use. "Did you spot anything else?"

"It's vague, but Alena was definitely in there," she says, motioning to the warehouse. "No sign of Kirscht."

"It's something," he says. "We ought to get in there before our friends return."

Milla nods, taking off to the main door. A well-aimed blast knocks the padlock off, and the pair enter cautiously. It's dark. Heavy dust swirls through slanted shafts of light from windows high above. Milla draws energy toward her hands, bathing them in a pink-hued glow. She splits from Sasha, heading toward the middle of the floor. Picking up on psychic distress is like tuning a radio. Once a melody is heard in a sea of static, it's only a matter of time and position to get proper reception. Each step brings her closer to the source, to where Alena's signals are the strongest, until her foot lands in something decidedly slick.

"Sasha!" Milla calls, ducking down to inspect the pool. "We've got blood!"

There's maybe half a liter in total. It's a muddy color, thickened with a dark grey powder that is scattered along the floor like sawdust. She follows the spatters forward to a support column a few feet away. A bullet is embedded in the wood at shoulder height.

Sasha arrives with a stack of papers tucked under his arm. "Alena's injury, I presume."

"It seems like it," she says, sighing. "There's a good chance it wasn't fatal, but…"

"If it was, where's the body?" Sasha asks. "And where was Agent Kirscht during all of this?"

"Maybe he was involved, god forbid," Milla says. "Or maybe he was able to keep his composure during the confrontation. Maybe she came out here alone." She pauses, collecting her thoughts. "What did you find?"

"They're storing lead in here."

"Lead?"

"Industrial grade powdered lead. It's commonly used in some corrosion resistant paints, for lining x-ray vests, weighing down scuba divers, weapons manufacturing. Relatively common stuff."

"And those files?"

"These?" He shifts through the pile. "Ledgers. Some kind of inventory management system, but it's all in Russian. I'll send a copy over to HQ tonight, see if someone can translate."

"We should go get a room somewhere," Milla says. "We can get HQ to pull some strings, get the translations and the blood analyzed overnight. If we delay any longer, we'll be lucky to find anything else."