"That does sound festive," Harrow says, warming to this holiday even as she still avoids looking squarely at Ingress's acres of bare skin.

She turns on her stool and whispers to the Bar, dropping a handful of knucklebones on the surface like Death rolling dice. The bones vanish, and skeletons--in bow ties--begin marching out of thin air to place more grisly decorations around the room and begin taking orders.

"A night off for the faithful rats," Harrow smirks.