[Omega] Lash Mob (Open)

There are only three things, Nassa D'Veyra thought to herself, That furheads have done to improve this galaxy. Medigel, cigarettes and reggaeton. Lucky for us this deck is full of all three.

---

The Aitanga Docks were one of those Omegan levels that didn't get much traffic at the best of times - sure, it was only a few kilometres from the beating heart of Afterlife, but since Cerberus collapsed the passageway during the Occupation, the only way to reach it on foot was a long walk through a half-flooded hanar arcology.

Which made it perfect for today's impromptu slave market.

---

"Lot number twelve! *hssk* Now, ladies and gentle-clan, do I have a treat *hssk* for you!

Dim Bool, volus slave auctioneer to the stars, made it a point in these uncertain times to only hold open auctions on very, very short notice.

"It's not often that *hssk* a Dekuuna-clan turns up on the open market, but never let it be *hssk* said that Dim Bool doesn't know a bargain when I *hssk* see one."

After all, given the collapse of the galaxy's biggest slave consumer and the rose of the Ub'hesit, anti-slave gangs were everywhere these days. So why give them advance notice? Better to do it flash-mob style and hire some extra security to be safe.

"So today - and today *hssk* only, I'll throw in a pair of Khar'Shan-clan twins, *hssk* straight from the Qé Bansa mines! Shall we start the bidding at..."

And that was why D'Veyra was here today - security. Not like the big krogan showing off at the stage, or the batarian menacing the slaves, but to mingle with the crowd and to stop any trouble before it starts.

The short asari pushed her way through the crowd, dressed like a refugee from the Worst Circus Ever but still maintaining an aura of compressed violence. Maybe it was the two pistols hung from her belt, the metal pole in her hand or the fuck-off scowl plastered across her features, but more likely it was D'Veyra's physique that did the trick. Decades of gym work, steroids and genemods meant that this chick was ripped.

I hate fucking freelancing. Tides.

Ignoring the pulsing music, D'Veyra spat and decided to take a look around the crowd.

Normally you don't blow off appointments to negotiate salvage deals as a pirate. Selling material was your credit-line. Any compromise to that could ruin you. This, however, was a special case. The hood of her outfit was brought over her top pair of eyes, concealing her identity to anyone that wasn't actively trying to identify her. Her crewmates had disappeared into the crowd. She didn't need direct guarding right now. She wasn't exactly going to start a fire.

The problem with counteracting the soliciting of slavery is that, while methods of carrying out transactions can be shut down, the supply cannot. Which means that at this point, the slaver industry had their bases covered in terms of getting their "cargo" offloaded, sold, and payment extracted before anyone else even figured out something had happened.

So she approached this differently.

Flash-Auctions meant less slaves of statistically higher quality with statistically lower gains for the slaver due to the business model being, well, an auction. An auction where the ideal buyer couldn't be guaranteed to show up by the time it had begun. So why try to end this method when you could exploit it?

Israa jostled with the crowd to keep her carefully won position at the front of the crowd. She kept her hand tightened under a flap of clothing for the holdout she had brought to scare away anyone who thought it would be a good idea to exploit a young batarian at a slave auction. She waited for the bidding to start.

Scrolls of the Kite, guide me to my brethren. Let me be their light in the dark. Their key to the chains. Their guide to the promised lands.

Let the Pillar of Wisdom allow me patience and intelligence
Let the Pillar of Agility gift me nimbleness and vigilance
Let the Pillar of Fortitude grant me tolerance and zeal
And finally, the Pillar of Strength bestow upon me the power and courage to see this through.

Nobody paid the asari much mind. She was just sitting in the corner, on the outer fringes of the crowd, playing with her omni-tool. She wasn't the pretty sort - oh no, no wild Maiden days for this woman. Her jaw was too strong, her nose too sharp, her eyes too hardened, her skin just the wrong shade of blue. An old, ugly burn scar arced across her temple and above her left eye. Bland, conservative attire - tough, rugged brown jacket, black sweater, BDU-style pants, scuffed boots - completed the ensemble.

Not alone, though. Not exactly. An M-29 Incisor lay nestled in an air duct, barrel far back from cover so as not to leave it hanging out in the breeze for anyone to see. A lovely rifle, police-issue, specially designed to get shields out of the way. Five triple-tap bursts from every sink, just as quiet as any other rifle. A less-than-legal sound suppressor had been integrated into the barrel of this particular piece, along with an armour-piercing mod. The gun was unattended but not entirely useless - its targeting VI had been slaved to a drone, which had in turn been connected to the asari's omni-tool.

Celeste scrolled its viewpoint across the crowd with a slash of her fingertip. She tapped the screen, and with each tap she painted a target for the Incisor to view as hostile. Then she prioritized - volus first, one burst would be enough to pop his suit and splatter his insides all over the stage. Second burst in the batarian's head while he's still stunned. Leave the krogan for later - dangerous, but trying to take him down first would be more trouble than it was worth.

The pistol in her shoulder holster was a reassuring weight - a rare M-11 Suppressor. Murder to get a hold of, but well worth it. The integrated suppressor (a suppressed pistol named the Suppressor, a little on-the-nose there) had been a bit of a hurdle, but the custom holster did an excellent job making the protrusion of the barrel seem more natural when her coat brushed against it. Heavily modified capacity of course, because in this day and age six-shooters could fuck right off.

More hardware in the bag currently sandwiched between the wall and the small of her back. Grenades of oh so many deliciously non-lethal yet crowd-controlling flavours. An Argus - Goddess it felt good to be using C-Sec hardware like old times - lying folded up yet loaded and ready for action. It had been a bitch to crawl up onto the roof and get the Incisor set up, especially under a strict time limit, but she was satisfied she'd done the best she could given the circumstances. Paid off a street-rat to smuggle her gear on-site - the credits were going to hurt, she'd have to top up somewhere soon.

Celeste slowly cricked her neck and waited for the opportune moment.

D'Veyra hustled her way through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on as many possible threats as she could. And yes, that included blinks, as Dim Bool had ever-so-breathlessly reminded her.

Blink, blink, turian with a slave-taker, blink making a bid, blink, fucking rock lizard, tides, where're the fuckin' LoP types?

Turning back to look at the press of people in the front, the asari's eyes caught sight of Calypso from behind.

Brave choice, that hood with those boots.

---

Dim Bool was in full flow now, taking bids coming from left and right.

[color=orange]"Fifteen, from the *hssk*-clan at the back - oh, fifteen half *hssk* from the lady in red, sixteen- no, sixteen *hssk* half from the esteemed Blue Sun, *hssk* seventeen from the Tuchanka-clan..."

A keen observer would note that, despite his energy, the volus' feet never moved. An [i]almost-superhumanly keen observer would spot the reason why - the nearly imperceptible shimmer of a barrier field, courtesy of the generator hidden beneath the podium.

"And sold! To *hssk* the Tuchanka-clan on my *hssk* left."

While the elcor and twins were herded off to their new owner (one of those nouveau riche Nemean eezo barons, from the look of him), Dim Bools krogan bodyguard rolled his shoulders and yawned. Big, yes, but not especially bright.

"And that brings us to *hssk* lot thirteen - these exquisite specimens of Earth and Palaven!" While the volus talked up the next lot's virtues, his slavemaster caught one of Calypsos eyes and gave her a seedy wink.

---

Pushing her way through the crowd - and particularly past that fatass salarian. Tides - D'Veyra took a moment to breathe, pacing the edge of the crowd and looking out into the rest of the docks.

Nothing.

With a sigh, she found herself near Celeste. Maybe it was the other asari's scar in a similar place (though D'Veyra's was more towards the lips, covered up with some gaudy turian-style paint), or maybe her dejected pose, but something made her strike up a conversation.

"Hey, sister, got any smokes? I got some furhead liquor stuff to trade, if' you're interested?"

...Okay, so it was a craving for narcotics. Whatever.

It would be worth noting that despite the inane chatter, D'Veyra's gaze didn't stray from the crowd, always assessing the situation.

---

The smell of sweat was suddenly masked by that of frying meat.

There's always someone selling hot dogs at these things, after all.

Celeste wasn't superhumanly keen. No, she was just very, very good at what she did, from very long decades of practice. It took her more passes than she cared to admit, but she spotted the barrier field. She allowed herself a curse under her breath. There hadn't been the time or the money to fit the Incisor with a high-enough-quality Disruptor mod, so she'd trusted its base design. A specialized KB generator would fuck this royally, to put it bluntly. She'd have to go almost simultaneously, flashbangs and EMs and Lift grenades and-

Bah. Someone just had to go and interrupt her train of thought.

"I quit," Celeste replied shortly, in a tone that quite succinctly expressed her distaste for being called 'sister'. Her lip curled a little as she scanned D'Veyra - jacked up on enhancements, painted like a hanar sex toy. Everything she loved most about mercs.

"Both. Before you ask."

The auction was the main attraction, but there were other smaller stands on the side for those who couldn't afford the most expensive prizes but still wanted in the action.
Obviously the atmosphere was stern. Most buyers and sellers were grizzled, with either a predatorial look or entirely business-like.
And then, not far from Celeste and Corona, you had Bintar. The Slaves4Us stand was the only one that offered freshly backed muffins and lollipops (levo and dextro!) to potential buyers, Bintar was all smile flaunting the merits of the slave selection behind him, herded by three imposing blue sun turians.
A dozen potential buyers were gathered around, some just dumbfounded at how out of place his selling theatrics were, others browsing the catalog and inspecting the slaves, and some others glad they could find such an obvious sucker to barter with.

The krogan, apparently satisfied with his purchases jerked his chin and set off, the entourage (and really, what was a hilariously wealthy man without his entourage? Besides...well wealthy. And tasteless. And arrogant.) clearing a path through the crowd so that the man and his well clad bulk wouldn't have to come into too much contact with the great unwashed masses. Latest acquisitions in tow he didn't so much walk as plow his way through the space between himself and the exit. Outside the perimeter of the slave market in moments, already making arrangements for his ship off station.

Poor Tugorc Oxkan. No class. No restraint.

And perhaps a tragically overdeveloped sense of optimism.

They were in the alleyway, ducking between warehouses, making for his corvette when sound

just

stopped.

The station was muted. Flat. Everything was faded, washed out. The sound of joints folding, kicked from behind, a faint whisper on the senses. Bones breaking. Necks snapping. Throats oozing blue, crimson, purple. A mutter of the mind. Someone tried to shout, a deep basso roar. Flat, black disks clinging to synthcrete walls like mechanical ticks thrummed in response. The waveform collapsed, the clarion call now a thin, reedy, whisper.

Oxkan was stopping. Jaw working, a puzzled expression on his face as he glanced behind him.

The batarian wore a suit. Business formal. Tie. Polished shoes. Black leather gloves. A vest and holsters.

Dim muzzle flash. Razor pellets and a wetly gleaming crater. Dim muzzle flash. Shattered skull and a fountain of orange and white. Dim muzzle flash. A giant slumps in the gutter and his brains splatter across a rough stone wall.

Stand still. Stand silent. Turn.

The slaves were huddled back, pressing themselves against the sides of the alley, eyes flickering between the darkness ahead, the darkness behind.

A gasmask wrapped around the jaw. A visor, a mask, shattered. Panes and points rotating and shifting like constellations. Geometric designs and icons in endless reconfiguration. No light. Broken light.

A gloved finger held to concealed lips. A blood soaked shotgun.

Fuck

She didn't expect the bidding on those twins to go so high. She wasn't exactly going to start a fight to retrieve them. Whatever their fate was, she couldn't worry about it now. Or rather, she couldn't. Whoever else she could purchase was counting on salvation that she could provide.

She caught the slavemaster's meaningful look and a cauldron of emotions boiled in her. Indignation, embarrassment, anger. Emotions that weren't expressed physically but hurt her all the same. The image was uncomfortably familiar. The only thing keeping her calm enough to stay focused was that this time she was on the other side of the podium.

She watched the bidding start.

2
4
5
7
10

"Twelve!" she shouted from the crowd, raising her opened omnitool.

This time she'd win out. She was sure of it.

"Nah, it's all good mate. It's just been a while, y'know?" A shrug of those heavy-set shoulders. "Take it easy, hey?"D'Veyra gave Celeste an apologetic smile and stepped away, only turning back the once to shoot her a look.

Yup, still there. Gettin' paranoid, Nassa.

...well, getting paid for that paranoia too, um, good work? Tides.

---

The quick, high bidding was a major feature of such an auction, as Calypso had just found out.

A minor, though possibly more annoying, feature was keeping his top set of eyes on her. Oh yeah, Timaj-na Orek knew what this lady wanted - not him.

But the misogynist frat boy would be damned if he'd let her pass by without making several dozen obnoxious passes at her.

The slavemaster made a crude hand gesture Calypso's way.

---

"Twelve thousand! Going *hssk* once, going twice...

"And sold! To *hssk* the hooded lady in front of *hssk* me. Please, collect your purchase from my helper."

The helper in question was another volus, who had led the slaves off to the side, away from mister dude-bro slavemaster (thankfully). Her two new 'purchases' were sizing her up apprehensively while the helper opened his omnitool.

"Greetings, honoured Khar'Shan-clan! *hssk* Your property is ready as *hssk* soon as your transfer is completed."

---

Speaking of 'property', given the complete and utter massacre in the alleyway, the recently-purchased slaves gawped at their erstwhile liberator.

"Gleefully: At last! We are saved!"

"Goro, wait, what are you doing?"

One of the twins took off, back toward the slave market. He'd clear the noise cancellers in a few paces.

---

Not that D'Veyra knew. Or anyone outside of the alley, for that matter.

No, this asari was busy patrolling the edge of the crowd, scanning for any sign of trouble. One fight. Is that too much to ask for? But no, nothin- Hang on, they're looking a bit organised.

Some of the crowd were clearly together, but spread out. Probably just a pickpocket ring (Or some of that volus' hacks just trying to push the prices up), but it was worth keeping an eye on.

D'Veyra moved to her left, trying to catch a closer look at one of the batarians, and clipped up against one of the curious at Bintar's stall, one hand shooting out to catch her fall and knocking a tray of muffins (Baked goods! On Omega?) to the ground.

"Tides! Shit. How much do I owe you?" she asked, taking in the brightly-lit stall and the cheerful slavers within.

Celeste gave Nassa a single quick lift of her eyebrows as if to say 'yes, very interesting, piss off now please'. She remained still, knowing that- yep, there we go. The freelancer gave her a second look. She rolled her eyes and counted out a few seconds for the merc to take her eyes off her and disappear back into the crowd. She stood, her bag of hardware hanging low around the small of her back from a tough synthleather strap over her shoulder. She took a few steps forward, gently pushing her way past the people to-

...

Sniff. Sniff-sniff.

...

Fucking muffins?

There was no mistaking it. Celeste trusted her nose about as much as she trusted the rest of her senses. Someone had honest-to-the-Goddess fresh-baked fucking muffins out during a public slave auction. She changed course at such a perfect right-angle you'd think someone had drawn it with a set-square. She pushed her way between a pair of blinks and took it all in.

Muffins. And. Lolipops.

On Omega.

Celeste pushed right up to the stall and locked eyes with Bintar.

"What the fuck is this. What the fuck are these. What the fuck are you doing. Who the fuck do you think you are?" Celeste gestured sharply over the array of fresh-baked goods and sugary treats. "Are you a real fucking slaver or is your daddy just out of town? What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck are you thinking, you're gonna give away a free lolipop with every sapient life sold? Are you fucking mentally challenged!?"

She gestured again, allowing her aura to flare. A tray of steaming levo muffins were hurled into the air, the majority of them raining back down over the batarian slaver's head.

"Hey, chill out, sister. Thought you said you quit?"

D'Veyra, stepping sideways and away from Celeste and Bintar, slowly lowered a hand to her belt.

One thing was for sure - if nobody had noticed the other asari before, she'd blown that anonymity waaaaay off the station.

"That's alright", Bintar said when Corona knocked a few muffins off his stand, "they are-"
And the hurricane Celeste passed.
Bintar didn't react at first, his four eyes wide with surprise, but behind him the three Blue Sun bodyguards pointed their assault rifles at Celeste almost instantly. Bintar raised a hand before it could get any uglier. The three mooks relaxed, but still aimed at her.

Bintar took out a tissue and methodically wiped out the chocolate off his bald head, looking at all the wasted baked goods with a sorrowful look. He then signed to one of the slaves who took a trashbag and came pick them off. An impish smile came back on his face as he reached somewhere at his feet and pulled out another box of muffins.

"Not to fear, I baked another batch just in case!
Ma'am I am sorry if our stand offend you in any way. I can assure that I am a legitimate slaver, as you can see here."
He pointed behind him, and indeed a little portrait of him grinning with all his teeth with "Slaves4Us Employee of the Year 2187/2188 : Bintar Ranak" written below.

"Now the gist here isn't to give a free sweet with each slave purchased. That would be tacky. The muffins and lollipops are for everyone to enjoy. It's actually a common business practice to offer some niceties to potential clients before talking business. At Slaves4Us honestly we're not much the cloak and dagger that inexplicably permeate the slaving trade, see what I mean?
Now are you sure you don't want one of those bad boys? No strings attached, and I'm telling you, they are *good*!"

Celeste had no real personal problem with the three Suns that held her at gunpoint. They were just working for a paycheck, after all. No, what they got was a look of intense pity for the trial of having to work for a guy who brings lollipops to a slave auction.

And what Bintar got was a woman in her matriarch stage laughing her tits off.

"You're serious. You're actually serious. I... I... hahahaha, I... I c-can't breathe, my sides..." Celeste managed to get out through the laughter. Then, in about half a second, she became serious once again. "You are a moron. A complete, and utter moron. Take your weak shit and get the fuck off my station before I blow your brains out and raise the galactic IQ average a few points."

She may have recognized his big stupid grin from a certain other place. She glanced back at Nassa, then at the Suns.

"Put your dicks away, girls. Unless you really think you need four guns to cover one asari."

Bintar looked at the asari laugh it off with a good-natured smile. The three Suns' stance didn't change a bit.

"I'm afraid I have a lot of work to do here ma'am. I'm sorry that presence offend you so much, but I'm certain that this station can very well accommodate the both of us as it's done until now. Now I'm very sorry, but unless you have further question I'm going to ask you to step aside so other people can come visit this stand."

A gloved, taloned hand smashed into his face. Blue-white lightning crackled and pulsed and the man seized. The turian caught him before he fell, a fistful of his tunic, half passing half shoving him back over to his brother.

He still breathed oh no, no need to worry about that. He was fine, if slightly singed. The more pressing matter at hand was the fact that

well

the rather well dressed batarian, somewhat self evidently, was not alone. A turian in a close fitting jacket and dark pants blocked off the alleyway; features obscured in turn. A second turian, a pair of humans behind him. Gasmasks. The same broken faces, planes and edges oscillating around and around and around. Shifting and reformatting with every movement.

A deep green ring around one golden eye, half glimpsed. Glaring. The same motion for silence. Slightly more emphasis this time.

As one they turned to go, the pair of humans already picking up the dampeners as they jettisoned themselves from the looming walls. The natural rhythms and movements of the station restored, fading back in piece by piece. The batarian, his shotgun now cleaned of krogan ichor and clamped onto the small of his back was the last out.

He paused, parallel to the small group of recently freed.

Not a word, not a sound. Just a cheap, disposable datadrive, proffered like one might extend a business card. The slave's to take or leave. The address for a disused dock a district away and twenty levels down. Translation: options; a way out. Firesale, limited time offer, valid through the next ten hours only.

They were emancipators in their own odd way, freedom a byproduct of their mandate. Good fortune of much the same breed that brought together oh so very many interesting individuals.

The Nemean baron that took it upon himself to attempt to wrest control of certain trade lanes. The gangster with designs upon well established territory. The warlord that elected to burn rather than come back to the table. That insufferable ass of a would be privateer that pocketed their money and vanished.

People who had attacked friends.

People who had wounded allies.

Why, it was nothing short of a beautiful little reunion here.

Israa carefully avoided the gaze of the slavemaster. Scrolls knew the only thing he was expecting out of it was a reaction. Any reaction. She maneuvered through the crowd towards the helper.

She opened her omnitool. No tricks, no games. The money was all there, in the account. "Thank you, good sir." She said, with a hint of eloquence that would belie a station of some nobility. She distinctly kept her eyes off the slaves. Speaking from experience the last thing they needed right now was some slave owner giving them a false sense of assurance.

Celeste needn't have worried - Nassa's first real concern was getting out from between the three guards and Celeste. She couldn't afford to tangle with the Suns, not without back up, and the asari was an unknown quantity.

Nope. This bitch is outta here, and that bitch bears some watching.

With a very obvious shrug, D'Veyra backed away, melting into the crowd.

Anyone who'd survived Celeste's line of work for as long as she had would definitely feel that someone was watching her. And hell, given the past few minutes, she could definitely tell who it was.

Where this watcher was was another matter. Commandos were good at hiding.

---

Barely a glance passed between the two conscious slaves before one of the elcor's paws gratefully accepted the 'drive. The awake twin threw his sleeping brother over the elcor's back and the three of them walked off into the dank Omegan twilight.

There was probably a story there, but it wasn't our story. Not today, at least.

---

"And *hssk* there we go, milady." The volus gave a little bow, transferring the slaves' chip commands over to Calypso's 'tool. "Your merchandise is *hssk* yours, milady. Would you care to be added to *hssk* Dim Bool's flash list?"

The term "flash list" probably lost something in translation from Irunian.

Calypso's two new slaves were practiced, trying not to catch anyone's eye while shooting their new owner glances. The human man, hair grown long to raise his price, was almost swaying with hunger.

---

The batarians in the crowd that D'Veyra had noticed were tensing up, lost in all the commotion.

Something was going to happen soon.

Celeste laughed again, shaking her head. "Fucking Tides, you're really something. Thank you. I thought I'd found the bottom of the barrel, but here you are busily excavating the bedrock underneath it." She stepped back from the stand, still shaking her head in disbelief, and moved back into the crowd.

Of course she knew D'Veyra was following her. Well, not strictly 'knew'. It was more of an educated guess. If she had been running security on here, no way in the coldest depths of the void she would've let someone who made a scene like that go unnoticed. She'd freely admit that drawing that much attention had been counter-productive but she just could not let that shit slide. It was fucking unbelievable, even for someone like her. Still Celeste wasn't too worried. She had an advantage over her watcher.

Celeste called up her OT as she walked, going with the flow of the crowd. She scanned the crowd with the Incisor-drone, knowing it would be easy to find the freelancer. After all, there weren't many asari with neon facepaint and bodies like juicing krogan.

Sure, commandos are good at hiding. But, unfortunately for Nassa, Celeste was just a liiiiiiiittle bit above a commando.

It's a bit of a funny situation: doing the right thing for the wrong reasons. Or, well to be more accurate, a selfless act driven by mainly selfish motivations. There would be a drone at that dock and when the timer ran down there would be a ship, extraction for those slaves, for any and all slaves the Umbra freed who could make their way to safety.

Their story wasn't over here, far from it.

Meanwhile

the noose slowly but surely drew tighter. A cord of well dressed men and women arrayed in a loose arc, active camo running, cloaked in gloom and shadow. Moving out of the alleys, moving into cover. The stalls and fringe merchants a few scant meters away.

Ready.

Waiting.

Invisible

save, of course, for a slight shimmer, a distortion in, say, the lens of a concealed drone with a good vantage point. A half hidden pattern discernible to the calculating eye.

Hand signals flashed up and down the line. Muscles loose, joints free. Ready to get down to that dirty dirty business of murder for profit.

Celeste's scan through her drone (or, more accurately, through her Incisor's scope) didn't turn up Nassa.

After all, the asari had positioned it to see the stage. Perhaps if it hadn't been so far back inside the vent... But then someone might have seen it. Life is compromise.

That said, given that most of the crowd (and the area where Calypso was taking ownership of her slaves) was firmly inside the drone/rifle's field of vision, taking that look had really narrowed down the potential hiding places.

---

The team from Titan were in almost in position when something happened. To be specific, it was this moment right now when Nassa D'Veyra's day officially went down the plug hole.

The batarian group in the crowd she'd spotted earlier were drawing weapons.

---


---

"Everyone put your hands up! Hands up and step away from the slaves!"
There were maybe a dozen of them, carrying crudely-made weapons, but what really made them stand out was the glow of mini-fabricators as they activated their blade armour.

One of them was very close to Calypso, and, if his raised gun was anything to go by, had just seen her buy two slaves-

That batarian at Bintar's stall dropped his muffin and reached for an SMG-

None were near Celeste, at least none at the moment-

Two Titans found themselves uncomfortably close to a trio of the bladed liberators-

"Step away from the slaves or we will shoot-"
D'Veyra's pistol took him in the back of the knee, his gun arm, and twice in the head, spraying dark batarian blood across half the crowd as it all went to hell.

"Fuck me sideways. Tides!"
And caught all in the middle of it was D'Veyra, barrier flashing into place as she tried to find another of the Van'tarh through the panicking (and very well-armed) crowd.

They aren't paying me enough for this.