Nick's tired, you notice. You both had sat around his dingy little office for hours.

Not like he needed sleep—he's a synth. But you could imagine circles under his eyes if he had human skin.

"I can't crack it for the life of me!"

Nick complains about the pre-war detective board game you got him; His fedora knocked askew, metal brows tied in frustration.

He's taking it too seriously. "It's a dud, I tell ya. Wise guy who published it probably made it as some lousy joke, and I ain't laughin'."