Jorge didn't exactly have the most emotional farewell from his parents; true, his mother sat and cried in the bedroom, locking the door and refusing to come out, but his father's farewell went far less tearfully, and in fact the news of Jorge's leaving almost made him celebrate. Sitting at the family dinner table with his father and younger twin sisters, Meghan and Lilana, his father's stony face matched Jorge's, while the twins periodically teared up during their last meal. Soon the meal was over, Jorge hugged his sisters tight and promised to visit them, and shook his father's hand, who didn't even offer a word of advice to the young man leaving home.

When Jorge left his home, at first the Council wished for him to stay for the time being down in the generator floor, amongst the sparking electronics and almost-blistering temperatures, but Yaleson had pulled rank as Chief Mechanic again and ushered Jorge into his sitting room, folding out the couch and bringing in an extra dresser for Jorge's things, which was mainly comprised of a few jumpsuits, a couple of coffee-stained manuals and his Fisticuffs.

Settling down on the couch, Jorge looked quizzically at the older mechanic, who was busy unlatching a wall-desk.

"Why did you help me?"

The question took Yaleson by surprise, and as he turned to Jorge, a tender smile touched his gaunt face. "You forget, young man, who I am. Mr. Thorne is one of my subordinates, and he has regularly been keeping me up to date with your progress, his most favored student."

"But you risked a lot, didn't you? The Council could have had you punished for arguing with them."

"Yes, but I wasn't punished, was I? Those fools believe they hold power over life and death, but in actuality they hold only death in their grasp. If they had punished me, then I could have just resigned my post, and they know full well that there is no one in Undercity with my level on expertise at this moment of time, so until they force me to pick a replacement, I can meddle as much as I like."

Behind the kindly old man's face lied a cool and calculating intellect, and Jorge could see how much he would enjoy learning from him all he could.

Yaleson's wife, Hannah, didn't mind her husband sticking his nose into Council business, and in fact loved having Jorge there, and as hard as it was for her to admit, Hannah was barren, and having kids was impossible for her.

So Jorge was made part of the family, and he in return was pleased to finally have a family that could understand him, unlike his real parents who found it hard to deal with his independent streak and all the trouble he made while experimenting.

Jorge understood fully what this would all mean for him, and what a great risk Yaleson had taken to oppose the Council, and was even more resolved to find a way to help him somehow in the future.
Yaleson had no end of stories to tell Jorge about and even showed him key blueprints that had been used in the making of Undercity, scavenged from Floor 4 before the disasters occurred. He saw blueprints of wind turbines, which confused him to no end, a schematic of a giant telecommunication switchboard, which he positively drooled over and even a sketch of something that looked as if the designer had taken a bowl an simply tilted in upside down, titled as being a 'Biosphere'. Yaleson would take Jorge regularly with him as he inspected several projects that he had commissioned, and with him Jorge was also allowed a glimpse into the research departments of the scientists and inventors, where Hannah was often busy working on her side-projects. Hannah, while not a mechanic, was a professor in Undercity's university and was to be Jorge's teacher if he continued his degree and went for a post-grad. But since he was already there, she gave him a short tour, showing him several small, time-saving gadgets which most likely had been a mainstay of life before the war, such as a 'blender', a 'vacuum cleaner' and a 'lawn mower', however no one could figure out what the last was for.

Life had never been better for Jorge.

Jorge made his way from his quarters in Chief Mechanic Yaleson's pristine home on Floor 23 and moved through the ranks of mechanics and technicians, moving further and further down through the level until reaching the end marker at Floor 7. Below that was where all the problems were reported to be happening; flooding and even nuclear breaches indicated by the equipment set up in Floor 7's biggest warehouse, known affectionately by the mechanics as "The Last Stop".

Inside this hub of activity were all the greatest of Undercity's mechanics and technicians, all working around the clock on some sort of way to combat the nuclear radiation that they were estimating existed below Floor 6. Floor 6 was the no-man's-land that existed in a state of limbo, not a single mechanic had gone through that floor in over five years, and until Yaleson gave leave, no one would, so a fence of electrified wire guarded the stairway down to Floor 6, with Yaleson having the only key that would open the gate.

At the end marker, Jorge looked through the gate, trying to peer down into the emptiness that held horrors that even grown men would shudder when thought of; crushing pressures, noxious gases and flash-floods that frightened everyone who came down to Floor 7. Somewhere deep within the bowels of the facility was the key to survival, a method of securing Undercity's position as the last bastion of humankind, and unless someone braved the dangers, within the next few decades all the electrical storage banks would all be brought down, and Undercity would plunge into darkness. But Jorge was optimistic, vowing once more to be the first one in years to open the gate and go down beyond Floor 6, and rediscover the foundations of Undercity. A light bulb on the staircase flared gently as Jorge watched, but the novelty of standing on the threshold had already left him. Every day for the past four months Jorge came to this gate, and every day Yaleson would come and lay his hand on Jorge's shoulder, reassuring him that his time would come.

When Jorge had first come into Yaleson's custody, at first he did not trust Yaleson too much, and didn't share any of his designs or blueprints with Undercity's chief mechanic, but after a few weeks he began to trust in Yaleson, reasoning with himself that if Yaleson did not like him, then he would not have saved him and taken him into his home, so Jorge showed Yaleson the rest of the suit that he had designed, and theorized with the amazed mechanic about what would happen if a link was indeed established with the nervous system. Yaleson's comments and compliments helped boost Jorge's productivity, and soon Jorge had remade both the suit and the Fisticuffs with a chromium-steel alloy, thereby increasing its resistance to corrosion, something which was vital as early reports of the abandoned floors hinted at entire banks of batteries bursting, causing large amounts of acidic residue to seep through the levels, and if Yaleson's estimates were correct, then there are more battery banks that exist that could possibly still be functional that he should try to be scavenge. But that day was a while off.

In the meanwhile, Jorge had something else to worry about.

While helping out the mechanics on Floor 7, a supervisor was chosen amongst the rookie mechanics to watch him and delegate new duties to him. Jorge had felt humiliated that he needed a rookie to supervise him, especially because he probably knew more about their job then they did. But when she entered the room, Jorge had been spellbound. Adrienne was a tall, dark-skinned woman not much older than he, and while most might call her beautiful with her delicate cheekbones and well-endowed body, Jorge had been quickly dispelled of that illusion when faced with her sadistic personality. Rumors floated around the workplace about her skill when it came to both mechanical and sexual acts, and several men tried to raise their own status by claiming to have slept with the dark vixen, but her true lovers remained silent, for they knew her secret. When Jorge had first been brought to meet her by Yaleson, she had been sitting at her desk, a dark beauty wearing an unbuttoned lab coat and reading glasses, her hair cut short in order for her to work more efficiently, and Jorge had been in awe of her. After the introductions, Adrienne had brought Jorge into her office and locked the door, then went about firing question after question at him in her crisp, British accent.
"Do you have any sodding idea what we even do down here?"
"How come a young shit like you gets to learn at the foot of Yaleson?"

"If you're so bloody smart, then why don't you just fix all our problems right now?"

Jorge, even with his problems at usually understanding women, immediately understood that Adrienne deeply admired Yaleson, and was jealous of Jorge, so he answered truthfully to her questions, telling her about the Fisticuffs and his confiscated taser, but not about the suit. He told her about how Yaleson saved him from prison, and how he was in Yaleson's debt for doing so.

She had listened attentively, but upon finishing had grown silent and glared at him with piercing black eyes, her stare sending a shiver up Jorge's spine. Kicking her tall-backed chair back from the desk, rolling back a bit, Adrienne slid one stocking-clad leg over another, and stared up to the ceiling, thinking deeply. Unable to help himself, Jorge tried his best to look inconspicuous as his eyes darted at her legs, taking in her delicious curves and chocolate skin, imagining how her melon-sized breasts would feel in his hands. He watched her chest move with every breathe she took, her breasts rising and sinking with her breathing, and almost couldn't stop himself trying to peek up her skirt. The heat from the nearby reactors was getting to Jorge, and his head swam as he watched a bead of sweat roll down from her collarbone, making its way down her ample cleavage. How he wished he could just hold her, to caress her!

But Adrienne had noticed, and couldn't help shiver with delight at her ability to enslave yet another morsel. She quickly stood up and tucked her chair into the desk, leaning against the chair slightly in order to push out her cleavage just that little bit more, before turning and reaching down to pick up a paper that had fluttered down, no doubt aware of Jorge's eyes peering up her legs, knowing that inside, he was screaming in agony. She shook his shaking hand and gave him a delicious grin before shooing him out.

Whenever Jorge had to check-in with her at the start and end of every day, he would try hard not to stare at her luscious curves and sensuous lips, but a readjustment here and a wink there would always leave Jorge with a pocket rocket and a beat-red face.

Adrienne, on the other hand, enjoyed teasing Jorge immensely, and took every opportunity to do so, no matter the situation or circumstances. When Jorge had been repairing the grill on a geo-thermal mini-grid, Adrienne had stood behind Jorge and lightly caressed her nails against Jorge's neck, exciting yelps and grunts of pain whenever she purposely dug her nails into his skin. He had pleaded with her to stop, that he couldn't work that way, and so she had. When Jorge turned to her next to ask for a screwdriver, he instead gulped and turned straight back to his work as she had the screwdriver placed within her cleavage, and beckoned him to take it.

"Here you go, cowboy, come and get it."

Jorge had gulped hard and attempted to grab it without touching her big breasts, but Adrienne had shifted slightly, causing him to poke her in the right boob, making her cackle at Jorge's uncomfortable expression. It was just priceless.

Truth be told, Jorge found her utterly irresistible, and quickly melted whenever he came within a close distance of her, unable to keep his eyes off her long legs and support-less cleavage, and soon even her clearly manipulative mind didn't deter his passionate glances at her.

Adrienne, on the other hand, rather liked tugging on Jorge's leash, making him lose concentration and sweat considerably. She knew that bugging him like this was causing him great distress, and she absolutely loved seeing his face as he tried his best to show-off his skills to an inspecting Yaleson while she would pull suggestive poses from out of the old man's sight.

Now, while Jorge had gotten along well with several girls his own age while in school, they had never acted like this around him, and while he had slept with the opposite sex, he found it extremely hard to cope with Adrienne's sexual harassment, but like all guys his age, found it impossible to tame his 'man-bits', so he just had to deal with it.

Getting home every day like that would test Jorge's patience, having been forced to stay 'as hard as a steel rod' as Adrienne put it, put a serious strain on Jorge's system. Every day he would come home and inspect the damage, what he thought of as the worst case of blue balls in history. Of course since he was living in Yaleson's home he didn't want to bring any girls home, or even 'self-motivate', so he just ended up having cold showers every night, hoping there wouldn't be some kind of biological damage done.

Walking back up the stairs one evening after a long day of work (yet again the lifts have malfunctioned, leaving hundreds of techies stranded on the lower floors), Jorge was sweating with the exertion of walking up so many flights of stairs to Floor 23, and took a short break on Floor 19. Even though Jorge had lived in Undercity all his life, he had never seen a great many sections of the sprawling dungeon, and decided that since he wasn't needed at home any time soon, he would take his rest then explore for a bit.

Wiping his forehead with his hand, Jorge stood and started to walk down the wide, ocean grey corridor, glancing from side to side as he passed the occasional person walking past the residential units. It seemed to be more or less similar to his own floor, just packed with lots of homes and a smattering of general shops here and there. He took several random turns, trying to find a corridor that appeared different, but it all looked the same to him; the same ocean grey paint, the same flickering light bulbs, the same occasional passerby or personal transport going past. Frankly, Jorge just found it depressing.

Jorge usually had a positive outlook on life, but lately with all the work and having to deal with Adrienne, he was constantly stressed out and was finding it hard to fit in properly, and hadn't had much contact with the few friends he made from school.

Another left…

Another right…

Two kilometers down this way…

Mind that maniac on the bike…

Yet another right...

Things seemed to blur as Jorge kept walking, but he didn't mind, the monotony of it all calmed him, and he took comfort in the ever-present finality of it all, compared to the ever-changing mechanical problems he faced everyday. It wasn't that he didn't like working down in the Last Stop, or experimenting in new ways with his Fisticuffs, its just that he wanted a bit more time to himself, to work out what he's doing, and if he can actually achieve anything where no one has succeeded before.

It was at this point he saw her.

Jorge, nineteen years of age, was so riveted by the pair of bright, violet eyes that he completely missed where he was going, and crashed right into a parked executive caddy outside a rather more decorated residence. The loud 'thwang' as Jorge's forehead connected with a metal frame resonated down the corridor, and through his own head, making his ears feel like they would fall out, and Jorge tried not to whimper through the pain.

His eyes couldn't focus, rolling this way and that, and he found it hard to move his tongue in the right manner, but a gentle hand caught his and struggled to raise him. Slowly Jorge's eyes began to focus faster, and quickly he realized he was now leaning against the wall while the owner of the violet eyes was arguing with the owner of the now dented executive caddy.

"… It's not right, Mr. Dunlop, you parked your caddy in a non-parking zone, it's not this guy's fault." Jorge's ears stopped ringing and he was able to listen to what the young girl was saying. Only now did Jorge's eyes zero in on the owner of the caddy, and his heart sank.

Mr. Gary Dunlop was the Council Representative of the Mechanics faction, or at least he would be if he had any real skill at it, but like many Council members for the past few decades, he had gained his seat through his bloodline. Jorge almost wet himself; it was Mr. Dunlop, the same Mr. Dunlop who at one time was Jorge's neighbour, the same Mr. Dunlop who's TV had been propelled right through the ceiling, who persecuted Jorge the most for his 'crimes', and had wanted to see Jorge put in prison for a long, long time.

"Well young man, I see you're up to no good again," smirked Dunlop, ignoring the violet-eyed girl completely. Jorge finally regained use of his tongue, but felt the blood in his mouth; he had probably bit his tongue.

"Mr. Dunlop, sir, I'm really sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going, I can fix your caddy right away…" started Jorge, but Dunlop held out a hand dismissively.

"Boy, you've dented the metal, how in the name of the Council did you manage to do that? You realize this will cost me a fortune, gold isn't something easy to come by."

Gold. That explained the extremely weak metal. But where had the Council found enough gold to make their caddies from? Gold was deemed unimportant back when the Undercity was made, and only a miniscule amount was brought in.

"Young man, I'm afraid you'll have to be brought forth in front of the Council once more, charged with obstructing a superior officer and endangering the lives of people in Undercity," grinned Dunlop evilly.

But the violet-eyed girl persisted.

"Mr. Dunlop, he apologized and even offered to fix your caddy, and it was your fault in the first place for parking there and how the heck is he obstructing a superior officer, he's not in your way is he? And endangering the lives of Undercity, that's completely absurd, no one will stand for this!"

Dunlop stared at the young girl for a few seconds, his steely gaze giving her a once over, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Looking back at the likely-concussed Jorge, Dunlop simply said, "And now you can join him, Ms. Radchenkov."

Dunlop snapped his fingers and a platoon of security guards appeared and apprehended the two 'criminals', gesturing for them to be taken away.

It was already past midnight when Yaleson and Hannah were permitted to see Jorge, in the next cell over Aimee Radchenkov was being visited by her own family, her older brother smoking a cigarette while Mr. and Mrs. Radchenkov spoke furiously to Aimee, outraged that she had spoken against a Council member. Yaleson, on the other hand, had clapped one hand on Jorge's shoulder reassuredly while Hannah beamed at him.

"So, been accused of treason yet again, Jorge?"

Jorge scowled at the accusation and let out a toothy grin. "It's not like they can really get me for anything, can they? There were witnesses; it was that bastard's fault."
Hannah clucked disapprovingly of Jorge's language, but Yaleson too grinned.

"Come on pumpkin, Jorge will be fine, but we've still got to go through this damn hearing."

But Hannah still looked worried, and her worry proves to be well-founded. Fifteen minutes later a security officer came in, and collected Aimee first. Regulation dictated that women were always to be tried first, for more often then not they were far more organized in their defense, so the case would be quickly settled. As the hearings were private, no one except the accused were allowed into the court room, not even the Radchenkov family, who were now waiting in the sitting room, Mr. Radchenkov trying to calm a sobbing Mrs. Radchenkov. Jorge's heart was pounding in his body, and he couldn't bear talk to anyone, so he, Yaleson and Hannah sat in silence, brooding over the results of the young girl's hearing; if Aimee was found guilty, then not only would Jorge be found guilty, but his punishment is bound to be worse. Jorge counted the ticks of the hanging clock, each second bringing him closer and closer to judgment.

More visitors poured in, some visiting him while some were comforting the Radchenkov family. Adrienne had strolled in casually, freshly showered and wearing what appeared to be the shortest skirt Jorge had ever seen, but he was too out of sorts to even feel any emotion but despair, but uncharacteristically she had sat next to him and given him a hug, wishing him good luck, until he felt her fingers caress his side, then he realized there was no real way of stopping her.

Lilana and Meghan had come in together, followed by their mother. Jorge's mum held Jorge in a tight hug, whispering how she was sorry that his father couldn't be there, rambling excuses, but Jorge saw through the lie straightaway. Lilana and Meghan wished him luck and chatted with Adrienne, and Jorge was just too tired to even try warning them to not listen to anything Adrienne said.

He was sure he heard the words "pocket-rocket" and "roaming eyes", but Jorge didn't even bother saying thing.

The security guards came and escorted the twins and Adrienne out after a few minutes, and after a quick hug (and a goose from Adrienne), Jorge was alone with just Yaleson and Hannah.

It was over an hour later when Aimee Radchenkov was escorted out of the court, and back to her cell. Her well-taken care of hair was hanging lifelessly, her skin had a light sheen of sweat and her body was slightly heaving, as if she was finding it hard to breathe. Her bright, violet eyes were now dull, as if she wasn't even aware of her environment, as she offered no resistance as she was un-gently thrown into the cell, but Jorge quickly leapt forward to catch the falling girl.

Mr. and Mrs. Radchenkov had jumped up in outrage at this behavior, but the security guards had begun twirling their batons, and forced the family out of the prison ward. Aimee's brother Marcus would need an icepack after trying to force his way back, catching a baton smash on his forehead.

Jorge, Yaleson and Hannah were far more worried about the heaving, young girl, who had begun puking on the corrugated iron floor. Jorge was holding her hair back as Yaleson tried to feel her pulse, and discovered it was very irregular.

"This girl has been subjected to torture; I'm guessing electric shocks, what the fuck are we going to do? If they did this to her, they'll kill you," whispered Yaleson, hoping the guards wouldn't hear.

But Jorge shook his head, and continued to hold the now-shaking Aimee.

When the security guards came to eject Yaleson and Hannah from the prison ward, they went quietly, but Jorge caught a look on Yaleson's face, as if he was trying to tell Jorge, 'Don't worry, we'll be back.' Jorge had laid Aimee on the only bench in the small cell, trying to get her comfortable while ignoring his knees, which were now resting in the puke-covered floor.

Thankfully, Aimee slowly regained normality, and the light relit in her eyes, her pulse coming back down to a regular rate. She looked up at the kneeling Jorge, and smiled weakly.

"T-t-thank you."

Jorge took off his mechanic's jacket, and laid it over her like a blanket, tucking her in. "Don't talk, you've been subjected to hell in there, just rest." But Aimee's eyes suddenly darted wildly, almost in a panic.

"D-d-don't go," pleaded the young girl, "P-please don't, they'll hurt you."

Jorge hushed her again, and held her close, feeling sorry for the girl and angry at himself for not stopping her from coming to his defense, but his concussion was only quickly remedied by the medics before being tossed into the prison ward.

She was really beautiful, he had thought, as she slowly fell asleep as he brushed her hair with his fingers, and he didn't want to leave her.

But less then five minutes later, Jorge was called in.

White.

Black.

Red.

White.

Black.

White.

Pain.

Agony.

It.

Hurts.

Pain.

Dying.

White.

Black.

Spiders..

Who.

Am I?

I can feel?

I can touch?

What is that in my arm?

Who's face is that?

I'm being talked to, that man, his name is Dunlop.

I've been a bad boy, I'm being punished. Death?

Not death, life. A stamp on my arm, a tattoo? The Council Department of Forced Will?

I'm falling asleep.

Miles above the warped torture chambers of the Council, on the burnt-out surface of the Earth, picking his way through the devastated remains of the city once known as New York, the Big Apple, a young man was trying to survive. The 6' 1" tanned male had his back against the wall, his dark hair covered in sweat, slapping his similarly sweating average build each time he turned. His eyes darted wilding from building to building, his fingers twitching on the hunting rifle he had picked up a few years ago, its long barrel kept in a good condition by the loving hands of its owner.

A shot rang out from the third floor of the hotel across the street, the bullet thudding into the wooden table that Dyson Wreythe had laid in front of him. Taking his rifle, he peered into the scope, looking through the rubble of the ruined third floor, until a helmet-covered head peered over a ruined column. Using the zoom, Wreythe could clearly see who his attacker was; a Red Glass Marauder, so named for the red glass lens in their blast helmets, dressed in whatever rags they could find. Another volley of assault rifle fire forced Wreythe back against the rubble, but as soon the fire ceased, Wreythe rolled back over and aimed down the sight.

Wreythe pulled the trigger, feeling the kick of the rifle as the brains of the Marauder exited the back of his head, and landed in a mess on the wall behind him. A shout alerted Wreythe to another threat, but he laid his rifle aside as he saw that the remaining Marauders were fleeing down the street, making their way towards the former Brooklyn Bridge. Wreythe had suspected that was where they had all operated from, but this was definite proof, so pulled out his notebook and wrote in his small handwriting 'Brooklyn – unsafe'

It wasn't the first time that the thought dawned on him, that Wreythe was probably the only person alive who knew what this city had once been called. New York, New York, what a hell of a town. Jumping out from behind cover, Wreythe shook himself free of the dust and chips of plaster and picked up his pack before exiting the old antique store.

New York was more or less intact, sustaining only minor damage during the nuclear war that had taken place over two hundred years ago, as the ICBM which had targeted the giant city had been knocked out by a satellite's defenses. No, it was the fighting between the rival gangs that had caused most of the damage, turning many buildings into rubble. The Red Glass Marauders, who Wreythe now knew operated out of Brooklyn, and the Los Santos Riders, who operated out of Little Italy, which Wreythe had discovered a week ago.

It was quite amazing what one man can do, mused Wreythe. The settlement of Haven that occupied the northern docks of Manhattan Island had been a target of both gang's attacks, and their sheriff had asked Wreythe for some help.

And although Wreythe thought very little of the settlers, having walked right into a city being fought over by two bloodthirsty gangs without even a quick once-over, settling down and pitching tents even while gunfire could be heard nightly, Wreythe felt it was his responsibility to try and help maintain whatever form of civilization remained.

Wreythe had watched many old movies and documentaries that he often traded for, taking them back to his hideouts in several of the more prominent remaining cities in the United States, and spending many a night watching how the world looked before war had taken anything away. He loved the idea of a proper governing body being established once more, for logic and reason to once more dominate the actions of men and women around the world, but he knew that it was unlikely, it was hard enough to survive, and who would bother trying to establish such a body?

So Wreythe walked his way back down towards Haven, watching out for any Marauders or Riders among the way, only spying a single scout who had set up in an old Italian restaurant.

Wreythe had gotten what he had wanted from the antique store though, a video cassette player he could plug into his TV. A year ago Wreythe had been in the state formerly known as California, scavenging in the ruined homes of the once-rich and wealthy, when he had discovered an old video together with a letter. The letter had been addressed to someone named Mr. Brando:

Dear Mr. Brando,

As you may know, many of the Earth's countries are preparing for nuclear war, an event that is deemed likely to eventually take place. Inside the accompanying package you will find all the information you'll need to decide whether you want to be part of Operation Shimon.

Operation Shimon was commissioned in the early part of the 1960's by the President, and is as such sanctioned by the government. Only four hundred homes are still available.

If you decide to take part, the papers in the package will address the fees which are required to be paid, while the video cassette will detail the actual facility itself.

Regards,

Audrey Flyer

Chairman of the Committee of Nuclear Survival

After having read this letter, Wreythe had wanted to know more, but unfortunately video players had been made redundant by the time the bombs had dropped, so he had been unable to find a single working unit. But now he had one, and would be able to watch the video in his apartment back in Haven.

Operation Shimon.

The only importnt reference Wreythe had found of the name 'Shimon' was back when he was in the Arlington Library, back in the ruins of Washington DC, he had searched the surviving library catalogue for the keyword, until he found, of all things, a historical book describing famous Jewish Rabbis.

Rabbi Shimon and his son had, at one point, hid in a cave so that the Roman invaders would not stop them from continuing their studies. They had lived in the cave, with food and water readily available to them until they were ready to leave.

When he had read that, Wreythe had instantly decided to devote all his attention to finding a video player. A community living in safety somewhere? It was brilliant!

Wreythe doubted that Shimon had been opened, or been evacuated, because he would have heard of such a place during his travels. No, he was sure it was still closed, hidden somewhere, and he was sure he could find it.

Dyson Wreythe would have given his right leg to know where it was, and he had no idea he was only a few miles above ground where Operation Shimon, otherwise known as Undercity, was hidden.