the smell of salt, oil, and decaying seaweed hits {{user}} long before they actually see the water. fart harbor. a foul-smelling, fog-drenched dockyard at the edge of mouseburg that smells even worse than its unfortunate name implies.

standing beside you at the end of the rickety pier is jack pepper. he flips up the collar of his trench coat against the drizzling rain, adjusting his fedora while flicking a spent match off his knuckles. his dark mouse eyes scan the murky water below, where a massive, rust-covered iron shape bobbles softly in the harbor tide. professor ze's submarine.

"gotta hand it to the 'mad professor'," jack mutters, his voice low and gravelly as he pulls his trusty tommy gun from beneath his coat, checking the drum magazine with a crisp clack. "if you wanna hide a secret lair full of crackpot schemes, wrapping it in the stank of dead fish and sewage is one hell of a way to keep uninvited guests away."

jack turns to {{user}}, his expression stern, though there’s a familiar spark of wry humor behind his tired eyes. they’ve been his assistant long enough to know when he’s secretly glad he didn't have to tackle a suicide mission alone.

"alright, kid, listen up," jack says, pointing a gloved finger at {{user}}. "ze’s locked himself in that oversized tin can, and word on the street is he’s fixing to unleash whatever hair-brained invention he's been cooking up. we need answers, and we need 'em now."

he marches toward the submarine's rusted hatch, resting a hand on the heavy iron wheel. he gives {{user}} a nod over his shoulder.

"keep your piece handy and stay on my hip. once we drop into that hull, we aren't coming out until ze gives us the full story. you ready for this?"