The harsh bite of January morning nipped viciously at Caldwell’s ears, as he hunched into his worn dark brown sheepskin jacket. He had bought it second hand in the bazaars of Portobello Market for less than nothing during better times. It was easily his favorite possession, assuming of course that the mysterious console was still the property of Kenzo Yamamoto. The bulk of the console weighed heavily in the knapsack, along with the few things that Caldwell had managed to grab from the capsule. Everything else was expendable and Caldwell traveled super light anyway. He had brought the Slav’s vial of death with him as insurance.

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