The Muse

Rick removes his jacket from the cupboard. It burns his hands. Rick's jacket is a bear-skin, with a zipper up the front. Not real bear, of course. It was designed and bred in the Muse, then grown in some East-Anglian farm. But it feels real enough. People don't often die of exposure, out in the streets, but it can happen. Best to be careful.

Rick's raincoat is torn, so he takes an umbrella as well – a gift from one of his clients. Swinging the umbrella, passing it from paw to paw, Rick lumbers out into the stairwell, claws scraping on the concrete. The bear's ears have sensors in them, which somewhat compensates for the muffling fur.

At the lift, Rick's paws paw at the buttons.

When the lift arrives, the mirror is broken – but there's enough clear glass for Rick to inspect his snout. He snuffles and snorts, and grooms himself proudly. The floor numbers flicker past: 54, 53, 52. Rick's tower block isn't one of the highest – but it's high enough.

(Although Rick doesn't know it, the tower's other lift is rising as he and the bear-skin descend. When Rick emerges, at ground level, peering left and right with wary bear eyes, the lift doors on his office's floor above are opening – and another figure is emerging. This figure also looks warily about, then approaches Rick's office, a piece of paper in his hand… But Rick sees nothing.)

Bear feet stomp across the foyer's concrete.

Bear fingers open the door to the street outside.

The rain is still torrential. Rick unfurls the umbrella – but it's not going to do much good. The bear-skin has waterproof lining… but sodden fur is unappealing. Rick wonders whether he really wants to venture out.