Someone hasn't been polite enough to wait around, even though there's an entrance to their mindscape. It's a mansion, very posh, very well furnished. Pictures cover the walls every now and then, though their faces are blurred. And many of the doors in the halls are locked, strongly. They're all helpfully labelled, however, with numbers ranging from 1920 to somewhere in the early 2010s. Six doors, from 1940 to 1945, smell very strongly of freshly peeled potatoes and cut onions. Many others are frosted over. Combat can be heard through some of them, but not much else. Someone's had training in resisting telepaths, it seems. Even if it's not perfect.

One of the doors, for instance, has been forced. Mud and water leak from whatever's on the other side, and the sound of gunfire bleeds through.