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Cakebaker

The white card says “G.”

Obvious this refers to Google, which is to say Analytics: the GA user-code embedded in the source of the old Bees rabbithole site. Trite, really, smirks Agent Cakebaker. Multiply by the LOST numbers and parse Fibonacciwise to get GPS coordinates.

Atop the Eiffel Tower, she waits expectantly for the First Annual ARGMasters Convention to begin.

Meanwhile, Goggles goes to Afghanistan; Deathless, to McMurdo Station. Token American winds up at a local Indian restaurant, ordering random dishes.

“We need better metaclues,” says Deathless once they’ve all straggled home again.

“There were clues?” says Token American haplessly.

Deathless

Agents Cakebaker, Deathless and Token American creep through the cathedral’s GPS shadow: Agent Goggles risks broken cover on a cafe balcony. He peers briefly through an ocular, whistles the chek-chek of a yellow-rumped warbler, and vanishes crowdwise as they double-time it toward the streetcorner.

“Ma’am?” says a hesistant man with a saucer-eyed kindergartner. “Is–is everything safe around here?”

“Perfectly safe,” says Cakebaker. “For civilians.”

“Oh. Is this, like, a Homeland Security exercise? A wargame?”

“It’s a game, all right,” says Deathless grimly, and his phone camera snaps a Nine of Hearts snagged casually in the gutter.

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