"Did you hear that?" the man asks nervously.

"Yes—be quiet," the girl whispers, gesturing for him to follow her into a cubicle somewhere. A regular human would probably not have heard her.

The Picasso, however, heard Denice, and starts making its way towards the stairs in fits and starts. "Damn kids // gerroff my lawn! // Could be a criminal // Do I use the gun? // Trespassing is a crime // So tired."

Fuck.

She slows down to move more quietly - she can be very, very quiet when she wants to, but she's just aiming for a little quieter than the other two were being - and goes up the remaining couple flights of stars to where they're hiding. Before she leaves the stairwell, she takes a moment to check; is the Picasso still dithering about?

"Dithering" might not be the best word. He seems to be arguing with himself, and isn't moving anywhere fast, sometimes completely forgetting what he's doing for a while.

The other two wait, crouched down hidden somewhere.

Good enough. She slips quietly through the door and eases it shut behind her, and goes to where they're hiding, stopping where they can see her if they look out and holding her hands where they can see them.

They breathe very quietly and stay hidden behind the counter thing they're hiding behind. The man's grip on the ladder tightens, and the girl tenses, hands around a can that's not quite spray paint.

...it's going to take a minute for her to be able to talk. She backs off some, finds a place to stand that's out of sight of the door, and composes herself, keeping a close ear on the Picasso as she does.

The Picasso doesn't move meaningfully, and the two humans wait.

She moves back to where they can see her.

"Hey. There's a... Picasso, downstairs. Basement."

The Picasso returns to his post, then (five of) his eyes flick to one of the monitors and he says, "Damn hooligans // how'd they get inside? // not on my watch." He gets up again.

In the meantime, the people here—freak out. Well, the man does. "Picasso! Fuck, Marcy, I told you—"

"Way to reveal our status, dunderhead," the girl named Marcy sighs, and stands up, turning to look at Denice.

Shit.

"Picasso coming," she looks pointedly at the door he's most likely to come in by. "Quiet, c'mon." She heads toward the far bank of elevators.

"Come on, Marcy, let's go," he says, going after Denice.

"Nuh uh. Dude, if it's in the basement then surely I got time—I came all this way here—"

The Picasso... starts dithering again.

Dithering in the surveillance room, where he can notice them again any moment? Right, no. (Also, the government dude can just... not. Like, she's keeping it together but she is definitely staying out of grabbing range and ideally also out of lunging range, thanks.)

"Coming. Sees us." She points to a nearby surveillance camera.

"...so we hide from the cameras, we don't have to go, this is important, Hollister, come on—"

"Look, Marcy, you want to go to one of the weirdest places in the City for whatever crazy reason you got, fine, but we're not staying around with a Picasso who can see us!"

"They forget, don't they? The Picassos. If they don't see you, they forget. So we just gotta avoid the cameras, destroy them or something—"

She is definitely not pleased with this argument but she has no comment at this juncture.

"You," she says, looking at Denice. "How did you escape the Picasso?"

"...I hear him. Stay away, don't see."

"What? You can hear it?"

"Could you keep us away from it?"

(The Picasso seems to have forgotten how to use stairs.)

She considers the request for a few seconds, clearly uncomfortable, shoots an indecipherable look at Hollister, and then nods, still somewhat reluctantly. "But... I say go, go, might not... time."

"Whoa, no. Marcy, no, what are you doing? You're gonna..." He trails off, glancing at Denice. "This is way too dangerous, what would Vivi think?"

"Look, I said I'd go with a spotter, and she might well be it if you're chickening out, but I'm getting my piece out there, it's too important not to."