Most of the winos stagger, limp, or crawl out of Carl's way... meaning out of the alley altogether. Those who don't -- or can't -- are thrown out. Literally.
Satisfied that he's alone, Carl turns his attention to the wall at the end of the alley. Runs his fingers over its grimy surface.
The handholds are still there. Good.
He moves up close to the wall -- so close that his stubble scratches the bricks. His arms he spreads wide enough to slip his fingers into the inconspicuous vertical cracks. And then, with a soft grunt of effort, he steps back and pulls the wall away.
The section of wall, an 8' square, comes away smoothly, the previously hidden seams now revealed. Carl props this concealed door against the wall while he steps into the darkness it had covered, then picks the wall section up and pulls it back into place behind him. From the opposite side, it's as if the wall has never been touched.
Carl stands there in the darkness until his eyes adjust a bit, then turns and walks up the gentle slope of the earthen tunnel toward the rough circle of light in the near distance. At one time he would have been obliged to watch his step, but he has long since cleared away the many roots that had wound their way along the floor, walls, and ceiling.
He heaves himself through the small (for him) hole at the end of the tunnel and flops onto his back on the turf of the mountainside beyond. A bracing breeze, pure as crystal, dances down the slope, stirring the pines overhead. The snowy caps of other mountains in the range peek between their trunks from across the valley. Somewhere, a bird sings its warbling call.
Carl rests his hands behind his head and, following the lead of the pines, gazes up at the blue sky with its powderpuff clouds. And he smiles.
He doesn't remember how he'd found that rather obscure interface at the alley's end. He'd been drunk at the time.
He -does- know that this is still part of Nexus, more or less. On a past trip, just for the Hell of it, he'd lept straight up to get a good look at his surroundings. Two ridges to the north, both the sky and the mountains turn a rusty red.
He hadn't ever seen any sign of habitation, and he hadn't bothered looking for it. He doesn't come here to socialize.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his battered hip flask. Popping the top, he holds it skyward in a silent salute to the clouds and the young fool they hide. Then he drinks, letting the whiskey burn its way slowly down his throat until the flask is drained.
He tucks the flask back into his pocket and just watches the clouds drift by for a while. Then he closes his eyes, and lets the pines and the wind whisper him to sleep.
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