She can hear the two of them talking. The one with the suit has spent the past few minutes repeating "This is nuts, this is nuts, this is nuts..." over and over.

Eventually the girl says, "Y'know, that's the kind of attitude that gets you Picasso'd. You start to panic, you slip away, and suddenly you've got eight-faceted eyes and your outline's jittery like you're on meth—"

"Not! Helping!"

Yeah, she's with him.

"I'm calm," he says. "I am a calm little lake in the middle of a calm little land next to a calm little tree. ...I am actually looking forward to getting to the tower, compared to this. At least the tower's a real place… y'think we’ll be the first people to set foot there?"

"You're the government stoolie, you tell me."

"That's Resources. ...or Safety. Or the FARTs. There's kind of a turf war for who gets to call 'First!'," he explains. "Orientation only mops up the aftermath. And since I haven't seen any paperwork about refugees from the Defined Tower..."

"Not surprised. It's useless to Resources, since you can't reliably run back and forth looting it," the girl shrugs. "And Safety is happy locking down anything even slightly strange."

"For extremely good reason," the man points out.

"So yes, I'm guessing we'll be the first ones there. Certainly the first ones to do what I'm planning to do. It’s gonna be... well, you'll see. Everyone'll see, when I'm done..."

And they reach the front of the building—the Defined Tower.

Inside of which Denice can hear the very distinct chaos of a Picasso.

Fuck.

Welp, in she goes, then.

The muffled space is... strange. Even the area that's become less muffled by the influence of the graffiti artist is bizarrely undefined: doors and windows painted on rather than real, fake brick, sidewalks that melt into the street...

The two adventurers have stopped advancing, looking up at the tower. "Island in the sea, eh?" the man comments, in awe. "Beats the hell out of the fake buildings. ...y'don’t think there's security guards, do you? Maybe a Picasso security guard or something...?"

"People have been looking at it for ten years from afar, and haven't spotted any," the girl says. "I did my research on this. The building's completely empty; we should be fine. Doors are locked, so... smash yon ladder through yon glass door there, hey?"

"Might set off an alarm..."

"Big deal. No guards, remember? It's an empty building."

She closes her eyes and speeds up a little. She's not going to make it in time, but hopefully she can at least get to them before the Picasso does.

"Even so... let's approach this cautiously, 'kay?" the man suggests. "We bash the door in, then wait five. If nobody shows up to greet us, then we go in. Look, I know you're brimming with confidence and I really admire that, that's totally awesome, but throw pragmatism a bone here. We need to be able to leg it if the ghost tower has actual ghosts in it."

"I thought you loved risky fun?" the girl counters, turning to face him. "You've got shots from crazy parties up on your website every week. Aren't you the guy who went skinny dipping in a swimming pool filled with champagne a month ago?"

"...you know a lot about a guy you claim you don't particularly like."

"When it comes to risks, I do my research."

He grumbles a little... but lets it out in a long exhale..

"I've done some downright ridiculous things in the name of a good time, yes," he agrees. "But this is not what I call a good time. And it's not a ridiculous thing I'm willing to dive into head first—and it's not my own head going in, it's yours, too. I gotta look out for my peeps. So. Break window, await response, and if everything's clear... I'll go in with you. We got an accord?"

"Whatever," the girl says.

With a nod, the man adjusts his grip on the ladder. Grasping one end, he hefts the cheap aluminum thing up, pointing it like a lance at the glass doors... and throws.

Glass shatters. No alarm sounds.

But the Picasso notices. The Picasso, someone who used to be a security guard, stirs from—his?—position at a security booth, a few floors up, surrounded by an uncountable number of security TVs, grumbling to himself. "Damn hooligans // why did I draw the short straw again // one day I'm gonna use this piece // shoot shoot shoot // so bored." He "gets up," inasmuch as this superposition of possibilities can be said to get up.

And the pair waits, in front of the building, oblivious to this.

Running.

Denice will probably not reach the Tower in five minutes, but she might in ten.

"Still worth making sure," the man says after five minutes of silence. "Right. Let's get in there so you can get your art on." In they go, towards the stairs and up.

The Picasso, meanwhile, dithers about what to do. "Elevators are faster // they'll take the stairs // maybe I should take a nap..."

The two have only climbed some four flights of stairs by the time Denice arrives, and the Picasso has gone downstairs, via elevator, in the meantime. Not very focused at all.

Stairs: Ugh. But the two aren't particularly hurrying, and she is; she'll catch up to them before too long.

They'll probably hear her coming: she can't run and yell, but she's also not trying to be quiet.

"Did you hear that?" the man asks nervously.

"Yes—be quiet," the girl whispers, gesturing for him to follow her into a cubicle somewhere. A regular human would probably not have heard her.

The Picasso, however, heard Denice, and starts making its way towards the stairs in fits and starts. "Damn kids // gerroff my lawn! // Could be a criminal // Do I use the gun? // Trespassing is a crime // So tired."

Fuck.

She slows down to move more quietly - she can be very, very quiet when she wants to, but she's just aiming for a little quieter than the other two were being - and goes up the remaining couple flights of stars to where they're hiding. Before she leaves the stairwell, she takes a moment to check; is the Picasso still dithering about?

"Dithering" might not be the best word. He seems to be arguing with himself, and isn't moving anywhere fast, sometimes completely forgetting what he's doing for a while.

The other two wait, crouched down hidden somewhere.

Good enough. She slips quietly through the door and eases it shut behind her, and goes to where they're hiding, stopping where they can see her if they look out and holding her hands where they can see them.

They breathe very quietly and stay hidden behind the counter thing they're hiding behind. The man's grip on the ladder tightens, and the girl tenses, hands around a can that's not quite spray paint.

...it's going to take a minute for her to be able to talk. She backs off some, finds a place to stand that's out of sight of the door, and composes herself, keeping a close ear on the Picasso as she does.

The Picasso doesn't move meaningfully, and the two humans wait.

She moves back to where they can see her.

"Hey. There's a... Picasso, downstairs. Basement."

The Picasso returns to his post, then (five of) his eyes flick to one of the monitors and he says, "Damn hooligans // how'd they get inside? // not on my watch." He gets up again.

In the meantime, the people here—freak out. Well, the man does. "Picasso! Fuck, Marcy, I told you—"

"Way to reveal our status, dunderhead," the girl named Marcy sighs, and stands up, turning to look at Denice.

Shit.

"Picasso coming," she looks pointedly at the door he's most likely to come in by. "Quiet, c'mon." She heads toward the far bank of elevators.

"Come on, Marcy, let's go," he says, going after Denice.

"Nuh uh. Dude, if it's in the basement then surely I got time—I came all this way here—"

The Picasso... starts dithering again.

Dithering in the surveillance room, where he can notice them again any moment? Right, no. (Also, the government dude can just... not. Like, she's keeping it together but she is definitely staying out of grabbing range and ideally also out of lunging range, thanks.)

"Coming. Sees us." She points to a nearby surveillance camera.

"...so we hide from the cameras, we don't have to go, this is important, Hollister, come on—"