[Omega] The Losing Bet

"A thousand."

Rom Anbel's breathing apparatus hissed as he waited for the response. The other volus was unsuited and unrestricted. He felt the fine cloth of the suit before him with his own fingers. His eyes traced the thread, back and forth, back and forth, trying to make a measure of its value.

"Five hundred," The other volus replied. His own dress was plain, drab, and tribal, but the other volus was the only one of the many vol-clan who walked the apartment corridor- suited and unsuited- who had stopped to look at the suit.

"This suit is made from *ksst* genuine earth silk, hard to find on the open market *ksst* these days. It was custom made and *ksst* tailored to the volus vacuum-suits form by *ksst* a Caribbean suit-maker, *ksst* the last of his trade. The hat was also custom made. *ksst* The entire ensemble cost me seventy-five grand to have made, *ksst* and it is the last of its kind. *ksst* Its companion pieces were lost in an unfortunate hull breach *ksst* incident. It is easily worth two to *ksst* three thousand. I only let it go for *ksst* this steal of a price in honor of your *ksst* impeccable bargaining skills."

"It's a curiosity," The other volus dismissed, "A conversation piece, and a clownish one at that. Not the sort of thing a proper vol-clan would wear." The volus spied the cane situated in Anbel's hand, "Does it come with the cane?"

Anbel shook his head. The cane was his only form of defense on this station. He'd already long since sold any guns he had. "The cane is not for sale."

"Six hundred for the whole thing, with the cane."

Anbel swallowed. The rent was seven hundred. He had nothing else left to sell. He'd spend all day in the corridor, and this was the first vol-clan who'd stopped long enough to make an actual offer.

"The cane is not for sale," Anbel repeated.

"Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass."

Anbel watched, helpless, as the other volus trotted off down the corridor. It was clear that the suit and Anbel slipped from the volus' mind the moment he looked away. Anbel stood in the corridor, the human-style suit on a hanger in one hand, his cane in another. Other volus drifted by, but none stopped to look.

Not too terribly far away, a pair of Blue Suns had an unusual visitor.

"You're aware this arcology houses volus, right?" asked one of the checkpoint guards. He was a touch put off - they usually had to check volus residents for their credentials, not...well, anything other than volus. But here was a humanoid - asari, drell, human, something along those lines - armored head to toe in a dark gray hardsuit and requesting admittance. "Beyond this point, it's filled with ammonia so they can go unsuited."

Shirin eyed the turian through her visor. "I'm aware." It was impossible to be inconspicuous when you were the only non-volus in an area, but she had foregone the usual 'bomb disposal coat' that went with her hardsuit ensemble, in hopes of being as bland and forgettable as possible. How well that would work, in light of her size, was probably a lost cause, but it never hurt to take precautions. "My suit has all the proper environmental seals, plus backups. The client I'm speaking with isn't able to leave the arcology at the moment, so I have to go to him."

She was also reasonably well-armed, and most of the arsenal was readily apparent. It was par for the course on Omega, and the Suns didn't worry too much about it...although they definitely took notice, judging from the measuring stares that swept over the drell. Inwardly, Shirin hoped she wouldn't have to make much use of it; shooting up an arcology full of potential buyers, sources of information, and business contacts was the polar opposite of her MO. No, better to be quick and quiet, in and out with a minimum of fuss.

"I see." The turian glanced from side to side. "You're not, uh...hrm, you're not on today's visitor schedule, unless you paid to get onto the VIP list..."

She caught the implication. "I did. Let me show you my credentials."

Five hundred credits later, the Suns stepped aside. "Don't think this means you can cause trouble in there," the leader warned. "Keep your nose clean and don't start anything."

"Noted."

Shirin rolled her shoulders and stepped through the airlock into the ammonia-filled arcology. Time to start looking.

Shirin Vedral wasn't the only unusual visitor to the arcology that day.

Halfway between her and her destination, Cerastes had taken up residence in an alley that carved between two shopfronts. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon tucked away in the shadows, utilizing his stealth suit's cloaking unit whenever wandering eyes drifted his way. While a day filled with "nothing" could have been construed as relaxing, it was anything but for the drell: his muscles were tense beneath the armor, knee straining under the weight it had been carrying for the past several hours.

Where the hell was she? Red eyes flicked behind his suit's visor, scanning the area for anyone who was, well, over three feet tall. A few non-volus had entered the premeses in the time that he'd remained at his post, but none of them had the gait of a drell. He glanced down at his wrist; his opposing hand swept over his omnitool to shield its light as he checked the time.

Damn. Two hours until his next appointment. The broker re-shouldered the ominous black pack he'd brought with him, careful not to ram the toolbox inside against the soft sinews of his suit. The armor he wore could handle more than its fair share of punishment, but regardless, getting a sharp object nailed between your shoulder blades was never fun.

It was then that he spotted her - a gray suit moving smoothly through the crowd, the exact height as he remembered her. A sea of volus parted and swarmed around Shirin as she strode forth; she had the determined walk of a woman on a mission.

Time to move. A flicker absorbed his form as he activated the stealth unit and disappeared into the darkness, as though he had never been there at all.

Humanoid's weren't uncommon in the arcology, there were always a few floating around, bodyguards, clients, partners. This particular apartment complex wasn't the classiest of the Omega offerings for volus housing, but neither was it run-down, and the appearance of thrift was a desirable trait amongst some volus. Even Krogan weren't unheard of; although few were anything but bodyguards kept on tight leashes.

In fact, the humanoid suit with the bribed pass was not even close to the oddest visitor at that particular moment. That prize went to the Krogan courier who could not find the apartment to which he needed to deliver a small envelope. Anbel might've been alarmed by the rumors of the Krogan had the Krogan not been largely unarmed- seen carrying only a pistol.

So the volus continued to stand, inert. He shifted from one foot to the next as the heavy chafing weight of the vacuum suit added to the discomfort of standing for long periods. Every once and a while a volus would stray close and he would fake the inflection and enthusiasm of a smiling face. "One brand new silk earth-suit! Perfect as dressing for a vacuum suit! Impress your friends and clients! This wonderful cane with a hidden blade included. Only seven hundred fifty credits. A steal! A bargain! My loss is your gain!"

Nobody stopped. Nobody ever stopped.

What an interesting society.

Shirin wandered among the volus and their flunkies, finding herself blending in a little better than she'd previously expected. The halls were well-lit, but clouded with ammonia and choked with passersby. With practiced guile, she weaved through the arcology's milling crowds, sweeping back and forth with her eyes. There was a volus that needed finding, and that might end up easier said than done.

The database had shown her Rom Anbel, but in an envirosuit - a serious problem, considering this was a volus-specific environment and they could roam without their suits. She would have to ask around, check with associates, grease palms, and do all that without making any waves and alerting the--

Wait.

There he was. Right there, on the other side of the causeway. No, maybe it was him. It was the exact same envirosuit, and as she drew closer, she could hear that it was the same voice, the one from the recordings. (The benefit of eidetic memory, that.) Chances were reasonably good. She took in the situation with interest. Here he was, selling off a point of pride. Didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. Shirin felt a twinge of empathy. She'd been there before - they were connoisseurs of the finer things in life, and to live high on those things only to have them snatched from you by the whim of fate, that stung. There, but for the grace of whatever gods were out there, went we all.

She continued to observe, and ambled across the hall to stop by the volus.

"Seven fifty?" A practiced eye roamed over the suit he was hawking. It was...phenomenally expensive, if she judged it correctly, particularly in the post-war economy. "Even if it's already custom tailored to you, isn't that a bit low? That looks like an Antigua original, if I had to guess from the cut - they don't even make those in non-volus sizes anymore."

Out of sight, out of mind: Cerastes, by not existing, was completely and utterly in his element. The drell slipped silently through the throngs of aliens, his light steps carrying him noiselessly towards his end-goal: Anbel's "stall," for lack of a better word. When he was within twenty feet, he ducked off to the side once more; his suit was about to lose its stealth charge, and appearing out of thin air in a crowded area was not an option. As soon as another alley swallowed him, he re-materialized, unnoticed.

A crack of his neck (he needed to let out tension somehow) ensued as he ducked out of the alley and leaned up against the wall to an office, one of the many that lined the street. By adapting the stance of a man who knew he belonged there, he became a prop in the background; taking up a spot in the peripheral of his targets was just icing on the cake.

Now, all he had to do was wait and listen. He was convinced that Shirin wouldn't be able to resist slitting the volus's throat as soon as he stepped out of the public eye, but Anbel had precious information that Cerastes wasn't about to forfeit.

In the meantime, he pretended to examine his omnitool.

"You have a *ksst* keen eye," Anbel said, and leaned forward on his cane to study the stranger. It was probably not a sale, the stranger had no reason to purchase the item, but to find another appreciator of unique human wares was always a treat. Maybe the stranger would purchase it as a gift for a client. "Hand made by Gabbani *ksst* himself, in fact."

The cane tapped the ground, and then he pointed out to his fellow vol-clan with it. "The reason it is no longer *ksst* carried in volus size is the same reason I have *ksst* such a cheap price. The attempt to market *ksst* the earth-clan style of dress to the vol-clan was a *ksst* failure. The design intends to make the form of the body appear *ksst* square. Popular amongst the earth-clan and *ksst* other clans. Vol-clan prefer body forms that are *ksst* circular. We bought for the novelty of new *ksst* earth-clan ideas. But earth-clan things *ksst* went out of vogue when they advanced *ksst* faster than us to the council."

He settled the cane back on the ground and leaned on it once more as he looked the stranger over. No, not a sale. He'd probably just talked the stranger out of one. Just a tale of another of his bad decisions that he'd stuck to out of stubborn pride. "Perhaps, if you have a child *ksst* of girth, it might be tailored down to size."

Well, that volus did know his suits. A comfortable feeling of familiarity settled in Shirin's chest. They weren't kindred souls or anything, but her style was a little closer to Anbel's than it was to, say, her father's.

"Fair enough. Still, there's something to be said for unconventionality. High fashion should make you distinguishable - it's like visual art in a nontraditional context. Playing it safe, not going distinctive, defeats the whole purpose."

The suit might be worth buying after all - she had a volus contact, a money launderer of low birth and high aspirations, who might be interested in it. Shirin had been trying for some time now to instill a sense of style in him, and something as non-comfort-zone as a human-styled suit might do the trick, especially as well-cut as this one was.

Eh, why not. If nothing else, the accountant would be well-inclined toward her.

"You know, I do happen to know a volus who could benefit from a wardrobe upgrade for public occasions. Tell you what, I'll buy it off you." The drell gestured towards one of the mini-plazas off to the side; there was an unoccupied bench, right in front of a vista with a perfect view of Omega, that they could occupy. It would let Anbel sit down, which suited his purposes, and was reasonably out of the public eye, which suited Shirin's purposes.

"Let's sit down over there and I'll transfer the credits."

Smooth. Cerastes tilted his head slightly towards the pair as Shirin made her move; he supposed Anbel wasn't aware of her existence, or if he was, had no idea what the young drell looked like (largely in thanks to the helmet she wore). She wove a fine web, he had to admit.

There was little time to dwell upon tactics, however. Moments after Shirin and Anbel started towards the suggested pavilion, Cerastes casually pushed off of the wall and followed suit. He couldn't keep too close - his aim was to observe, intervening only if necessary - but he needed to stay within earshot if this little venture of his was to prove worthwhile. As the pair settled in on the suggested bench, he, in turn, stood near the corner entrance, his form obscurred by a holographic tree.

It had been a while since he'd played spy quite like this. His eyes flicked upwards from his omnitool, scanning the crowd, the visitors, the... krogan? Odd. Given that his face was obscurred by the plate to his helm, he allowed himself to stare for several seconds before returning his attentions to the matter at hand.

If Shirin was going to make a move, he suspected it would be soon.

Rom Anbel settled into his seat. He was relieved to get off his feet, and to rest the hulking weight of his envirosuit on something other than himself. Outside, Omega buzzed in as orderly a manner as it could manage. The strange cadre of denizens, drifters, and the dispossessed streamed through the street in organized chaos. The suns moved throughout them, not really maintaining order so much as keeping a lid on the hell that would be unleashed without them. The warning sirens and hazard lights flickered in the distance, ignored and despised, like the stars themselves.

His cane leaned against the chair. His breathing apparatus let out a stream of sound as he sighed. Rom Anbel was getting old. Once he would've looked down and seen only opportunity. Now the sight of it all just made him weary. The arm that held the suit was stiff and ached a little, but he held it still rather than dare wrinkle or stain an inch of it.

"You've got a keen eye, *ksst* as I've said previously. *ksst* Your points are salient, and this is *ksst* practically robbery, so you'll forgive me *ksst* if I don't thank you," Rom chuckled a little, a rare moment of levity from the stern vol. He produced his chit, and set it on the table, though his hand lingered next to it, resting. "The sum is agreed. *ksst* Seven hundred and fifty credits."

"Nah, I understand. Seven fifty, as agreed."

It was not the most comfortable bench, made as it was for shorter folk, but Shirin made do as they settled in. She produced her chit, in plain sight so that the volus could see it, and typed briefly before setting it down to work on the transfer. As it processed, she pulled her satchel from around one shoulder and set it on her lap, then accepted the suit from Anbel and folded it with practiced care at the creases - it was a nice suit, and she would abide no wrinkles. Sliding the suit carefully into the satchel, she glanced at the transaction indicator. Roughly three seconds to relax. Lick up the nectar, maiden, as the asari used to say - there was only so much time to savor.

One.

"Ahh."

Two.

"Always a pleasure doing business with a man of taste. I don't meet many people who appreciate nice things the way I do."

Three.

Shirin accepted her credit chit back, and one hand disappeared into her lap. "And now, Mr. Anbel," she said pleasantly, "before we go our separate ways, I think it'd be best for both of us if you forwarded me all of your intel on Suri'Neyvi."

Under her satchel, there was the distinct chak-chakt of a pistol expanding.

"After that, you finally get to rest. I'll take care of it from here."

Click.

So she had come prepared. A beat skipped in Cerastes' chest as he listened, his head now inclined behind the hologram to better eavesdrop on the conversation. He'd anticipated the youth to open fire on Anbel as soon as the moment arose, but it appeared she was more patient that he'd suspected.

Still, there was the gun. He saw Shirin's hand under the table, the slight change in her posture as the tone of the conversation shifted. Not wanting to waste an opportunity, Cerastes kicked on his stealth unit, slid out from his corner, and stealthed towards the bench. Upon nearing the pair, he allowed his footsteps to fall heavier for several treads before de-cloaking; Shirin struck him as the sort that would react badly to being snuck up on, and he had no intent of getting shot by the trigger-happy daughter of a maniac.

"You'll forgive my intrusion," he began. No reason not to savor a dramatic entrance. "But I have an invested interest in this, as well."

Passively, the broker clasped his hands behind his back and stared from behind his visor. He might not have been recognizable at first, but the low, raspy tone of his voice readily gave him away.

Well, that was all something.

Anbel looked from the suited stranger to the drell informant and back again. The stranger was the greater threat right now. He smiled beneath his envirosuit. They thought he had information on Suri'Neyvi? Silly, oh so silly. Oh, he had some facts, some little guesses, but nothing substantial. All the same there might be a way out of this besides running. Anbel was not defenseless but neither was he a warrior. Well, not one of the caliber that these people likely were, anyways.

Fact one: They wanted Suri, unless they were lying, they were not affiliated with her.

Fact two: They were not Hierarchy, or else he would be dead already.

Fact three: Flipping the table was possible, but not practical, the table might not provide enough protection from the pistol.

Fact four: He could escape at any moment.

Fact five: This could be to his advantage.

"My intelligence, *ksst* as it were, is not on me," He lied, "Oh, I can tell you some things, *ksst* none important, but the real cache of *ksst* useful information is stored elsewhere. *ksst* Information regarding her repeated attempts *ksst* on my life to be precise; *ksst* video footage, descriptions, interviews of *ksst* former associates, forensics. *ksst* You will not find it in my apartment, *ksst* or my omnitool, and if you kill me, *ksst* you will not find it. I am not without connections, *ksst* even if I am without resources."

These of course, were all dead ends, but they needn't know that.

He raised his free hands in a submissive gesture. The cane remained propped against his chair. The back of his head tingled with concentration. "That said, I am curious what you *ksst* think murdering me will achieve, *ksst* besides making Ms. Neyvi very happy."

This was bad.

There were now two unknown factors in the situation - one (that fucking Cerastes, who had decided to drag his crippled ass into an encounter she'd assured him she could handle and become a liability) was an unplanned-for unknown factor, and both of them could snowball fairly quickly. Shirin wasn't particularly concerned about Anbel (she'd planned for that), but Cerastes was an issue; you could generally afford two or three unplanned-for permutations before the plan degenerated into 'total improvisation'. This kind of situation had to be resolved quickly. She would have to write it off as a loss.

"Well, that's unfortunate," the drell said with utmost politeness, leaning back a little on the bench. The satchel shifted slightly, metal glimmering under it from the incidental light. "I suppose this was mostly a loss, then. I'd hoped to further my search through you, Mr. Anbel, but here I am, left with the choice of either writing this off or cooperating with you."

Perhaps she wouldn't beat Cerastes when this was over. Wrench in the works though he was, the other drell was giving her some valuable practice in going with the flow.

"And if you'll forgive my impropriety, sir, you're not the most trustworthy person, are you? One thing about snakes, Mr. Anbel, we know our own. As for my reasons behind this, well, what's life without mysteries?"

The muscles in her wrist tightened almost imperceptibly as she shifted.

"Don't be upset about it. This is a good way to go - it's fast, it's painless, and you can take comfort in knowing Suri'Neyvi will be following after you. Sit back and watch the stars. It'll be over in a moment."

Well, this was going badly.

Not that he hadn't expected anything less. With youth came impetuosity; Shirin might have presented herself as a professional, but to him, her logic was in dire need of improvement. At the sight of the other drell's wrist twitching beneath her bag, Cerastes made his move.

It was easy to underestimate a cripple. After all, imperfection meant inferiority; he couldn't run as fast as he used to and he couldn't sustain weight, but the dire mistake that others made when confronting him was to underestimate him. As Shirin's finger twitched on the trigger, Cerastes ducked forth and snagged her shoulder, pulling it back sharply so that the shot fired off inches away from Anbel.

Time slowed down. He knew that, as soon as Shirin got her bearings, she was going to turn on him; that was all well and good. In his eyes, she could take her anger out on him all she wanted until he got the intel they were looking for. He wasn't about to sacrifice the past week and a solid payment for some youth's ill-thought revenge - if it meant he got shot, so be it.

The broker pulled back as soon as he yanked on the younger drell, rearing so that he could spring after Anbel as soon as Shirin rounded on him.

Shirin's first sin was pride.

She'd assumed, mistakenly, that she could kill Anbel with ease. Not to mention without causing a ruckus. There was likely a degree of confidence in her abilities, and likely a well placed confidence, but an overinflated one.

Shirin's second sin was disobedience.

The file on Anbel she'd inherited was clear on one thing above all others: Kill on sight. Anbel might've been easier to handle taken by surprise. Instead she'd chosen to parlay with him, and in the end, alerted him of her malicious intent.

Shirin's third sin was the gravest.

She'd trusted a snake, likely just because they'd shared the same type of scales. Once a traitor, always a traitor.

Rom Anbel knew of only two of those three sins, but they were sufficient. Escape was possible, but so was victory. His pursuers were a conceited merc and a fool. He was neither. He did not flinch as the bullet flew by him. His vacuum suit kept the noise from being too startling, and he was impassive to the notion of the bullet. One hand grasped the cane, sliding out the blade hidden within. His other hand remained opened palmed, forward. The back of his head tingled with concentration. Blue electric fire sprung from his hand. He slid off the bench.

The bench reared up on its end, and then charged at the tangled pair of drell.

The downside of perfect memory was that someday, Shirin would be able to look back on all the times she'd thought "well, this just went to hell" and become gradually more annoyed the further she got down the list.

This was the newest entry, and it would make her very annoyed indeed.

The pistol was suppressed, at least - small favor, that, considering they were about to make enough noise to alert the rest of the station. Cerastes, unknown factor that he was, had managed to destroy any chances she had of at least accomplishing her secondary objective. No intel and no dead Anbel would be unacceptable. Lastly, the bench was now flying towards them with remarkable force.

Fortunately, the nuisance was busy leaping at Anbel. Shirin fell backwards, going with the motion from Cerastes pulling her, and rolled as she hit the floor. Let the other drell deal with the flying bench; if he got a good concussion from it, so much the better. Ass.

She came up into a half-crouch and brought the pistol to bear - in the light, they could see it was an enormous M-77, more than suitable for piercing an armored envirosuit. Shooting at the obstacle itself would be a waste of heat; instead, Shirin squeezed once, twice, three times and fired under the flying bench. With a little luck, perhaps she could wing him before he could get his barriers up.

Velocity, for the first time in his 30-some years of existence, became Cerastes' worst enemy.

The bench collided with the albino drell with a sickening CRACK, his shields shattering in an instant as the previously-immobile furniture flung him back against a nearby railing. A desperate exhale of breath escaped him on impact; nerves spasmed, body seized in answer to the sudden pressure that invaded his entire being. The broker remained, struggling against the immense weight of carved stone until his suit's backup systems mercifully kicked in.

A series of small pricks lined his body as the suit activated. Slowly but surely, painkillers flooded his system, erasing the baser senses of agony as he scrambled beneath the bench. As pain evacuated his form, he snarled bestially and shoved at the weight, somehow managing to push the bench off of him in one motion.

The pain would come tomorrow, as it always did. Dull pressure reigned over his muscles as he stood and reached for his guns. He couldn't feel it now, but oh, when the moment struck, he knew his body would wrench in unrelenting torment; it was the price he had to pay for a moment's victory.

Like a specter of the company he worked for, the drell drew his pistols and aimed dead-on at the volus. It was time to secure the job.

The hope that the bench would disable both of his targets dashed, Rom Anbel rapidly reconsidered his options. Two of shots fired went wide. The third pinged against Anbel's biotic barrier, which he'd raised in the moment of concentration before pitching his peace offering. He had no internal monitors to tell him of the strength of the barrier, but he instinctually felt it wane in strength.

In the current environment, he had the advantage. If he was shot non-fatally he would be fine. If he pierced one of their suits, they would be exposed. On the other hand there was now two guns on him and he had none, and no cover. He could close the gap between one of them easily, but beyond that, it was a question of his own martial prowess.

On the other hand, he really, really didn't want to get shot.

No. Betting on beating a warrior who was skilled enough to recover from that surprise attack, even with a home field advantage, was a losing bet. It was time to cut his losses. He turned to the window, picked a stationary target out of the crowd, and sprung to life with biotic flame.

He took a step forward, leaned into the spring and-

A biotic charge works much like a relay jump. A corridor of mass-less space forms, and without mass to slow them, the light jump of the initiator is enough to push them to nigh relativistic speeds. It is a strongly ill advised technique. If the biotic is not skilled enough to phase properly, or miscalculates the jump, they could find themselves splattered against a wall or phased into a floor. To Rom Anbel, the world turned strange and tunneled. To everyone else, the volus turned into a bright burst of biotic fire.

He didn't end up in the floor, and didn't explode against the bulkhead in an amazing display of gore. Instead he phased in too soon, and appeared several feet above the ground. The target, who was a turian who'd been lingering outside the arcology, smoking, didn't get a chance to look up before a volus fell unceremoniously on top of him.

Another shot slammed into the windowframe, exactly where Rom Anbel's head had been, just a millisecond after he charged.

At this point, it was almost certainly a total loss. The element of relative certainty had been removed thanks to Cerastes (again, an unplanned-for element - if Shirin had ever believed the ability to formulate a strategy was genetic, her total failure in this regard would have thoroughly dispelled that faith). And now the volus was spooked, and he'd go underground and make the whole thing for nothing. The credits had, thankfully, been transferred from a throwaway pseudonym, but if anyone could trace the series of fake accounts back to her and become a serious problem in the future, it was a volus. Lastly, the shattering of the window had, of course, set off diffusive energy barriers and a very loud alarm. Given the Blue Suns' response time, it was in the drell's best interest to bail out now.

That was, after all, the number one rule: never be so devoted to anything that you can't walk away from it in seven seconds. Still, the way Anbel landed was awkward enough that he needed to get up and keep moving. Maybe, if she could time this just right, there was still a chance.

Shirin had already slapped in a new heatsink on the way to the window, and now, focusing on the fleeing volus, she rested the Paladin's barrel on her forearm, then took in and held a single breath. The targeting VI zeroed in her sights and, in that moment of supreme concentration, everything seemed to hold still.

She squeezed the trigger...and missed, winging a human next to Anbel.

Equal parts rage, dismay, and intense humiliation swept through Shirin, an intense heat suffusing her scales. There was no time to take another shot; judging from the noise, the Blue Suns were almost on the scene. Time to cut her losses and move. Without another word, the drell leapt out the window and onto the roof of the adjacent arcology wing, then commenced running.

This was quickly becoming the fourth-worst day she could remember.