Altman's in the middle of one of his outbursts, fingers wet with the wormblood he usually ingests as he covers the walls with the aggressive angles of Marker script. It's only the vaguest of vibrations, a disturbance in the usually stale air, that gives him any indication that someone is approaching.

He's gotten good at feeling his way around the tunnels like that, listening and feeling, and he knows this isn't one of the cultists he associates with. They know better than to come his way when he's having one of his bad days.

It takes a few tries for him to find his voice, his throat dry (when was the last time he drank anything that didn't come from a worm?) and sore, and even when he finally manages it cracks uncomfortably as he calls out;

"Who's there? Ada?"