A crisp knock at the door was accompanied by a perfectly timed net-message from Drizcos: “Your lordship, may I present Mr. Tyrrel.” With a half-thought I authorize the door, and the two heavy oak doors begin to open. In the dimly lit opening, I see Drizcos, standing tall, expressionless, in his pink double breasted suit. Behind him, the dinged, dented, multiloy synthsteel power-armour of Mr. Tyrrel. Having all the invvitaiton he needs, Mr. Tyrrel’s heavy feet begin to step forward. I pull the syngar from the ashtray on my desk and take a long drag. Once Mr. Tyrrel is inside and looking at me, I ask: “Is it done?” “No.” “Why not?” “Informational failure.” “Expand?” “No.” And with that, he turned around and began walking out. I thought I had ordered the doors closed. Regardless, I ping security not to let him escape. A few bursts of rifle fire, an explosion. Another one. I check one of the security feeds – chatter on the target moving; discussion of weapons misfiring; automated security failing. I push an announcement to all house feeds: SYSTEM COMPROMISED. Reaching into the lowest desk-drawer, I pull out the low caliber pistol, stashing it in my sweater pocket. After collecting my files on a data stick, I begin making my way to the garage.