Description: Riko Koganei is many things. Hacker. Ninja. Thief. Spy. But one thing she isn't? She's not an altruist. So what's she doing volunteering information to Interpol? Especially intel like the location of the Thai Army leader, a man held captive by Shadaloo. That's knowledge that could make or break the war. So why? Good question. One that Agent Soma Travedi asks. Maybe he's right to be paranoid...
Bangkok.
The capital and largest city of Thailand. At its height, one of the most populous cities in the world - fourteen million people, some say. Maybe less. Maybe more. One of the economic hubs of Southeast Asia, a major player on the global stage.
At least in better times.
Now, with the city, with the very nation itself under siege... the great financial houses lie deathly silent. The offices empty, as workers stay far away from the urban districts. It's not safe now. Not safe at all. There can be no place for business when lives are under threat.
Take this street, for instance. Home to the great Stock Exchange of Thailand, the centre of trading in the region. Now it's all but abandoned. The markets are closed, the building is empty, a cavernous hulk. The great glass doors of the building's facade gaping, cold. The main trading hall wreathed in shadow. There is no press of bodies, no flash of electronic messages across screens. No. There is nothing. Outside, the streets are empty - nobody wants to roam when Shadaloo troops are on the prowl. A ghost town, still and quiet in the hush of night. Even the lights are off, the streets dark.
Quiet.
And yet there's life, all the same. For while the citizens of Bangkok might fear to roam, there are others more willing to prowl. The brave, the bold. Self-proclaimed heroes, fighting for Thailand. For the people.
And there is a reason for one to be here, tonight.
The message was simple, enigmatic - delivered in a time-honoured fashion, by the simple expedient of a young child paid to deliver a piece of paper with a grubby hand.
Just a scribbled address, that of the Stock Exchange. A date. A time.
Now.
The stupid thing had almost been slipped under his office door... the Lost Records office of BBC Singapore that nobody is to enter except Soma, by orders of the network's higher ups. Mostly because it's actually an MI6 workroom on loan to Interpol for intelligence analysis, a job that Soma is experienced at and, briefly, on independent confidential assignment to perform. It's not as much fun as it sounds either... mostly reading and re-checking of communiques, ciphers, radio wiretaps, satellite photos... trying to find some pattern in Shadaloo's activities, some chink in their armor.
The fact that there doesn't appear to be one has really set Soma's nerves on edge, too.
So when the knock came, the young Indian agent opened it from sheer surprise. The kid standing there -- no older than 8, dressed in the raggedy clothing of a Singapore street urchin -- already had his hands under the door, clearly uneasy about being where he was. He got no answers out of him, either; the kid only croaked out, "Travedi?" and, on Soma's confused nod, thrust the letter forward and dashed out of the building. Soma didn't chase him, knowing full well that the kid had no idea who gave him the envelope and, if money was involved, wouldn't say even if he did. So he carefully walked back inside and slit it open.
An eyebrow went up as he read it. It took some convincing to get MI6 to smuggle him into Bangkok, but he managed to pull it off. His detective's instincts were gnawing at him and, quite honestly, nobody was too concerned about the potential loss of one Interpol agent.
But he's not an idiot. Wearing his typical black and grey ensemble, the Interpol agent is keeping to the shadows. The trademark daggers are nowhere in sight, but dipping below the midriff-level edge of his bolero coat is the brown leather strap of a shoulder holster, barely visible. A gun might not be much if Shadaloo decides to sent out the real heavies, but it's enough to take care of small fry.
"Well, mystery man, you got my attention..." Soma mutters, scanning the area for suspicious people. "Your move now..."
Why would Katelynn be here? Why not? Well, other than the fact she seems a little out of place with her casual attire...
Enter the players. One drawn here by a mysterious message. Another by the arcane workings of espionage.
So the stage is set.
Curtain.
It's visible from the street. Through the proud doors of the Stock Exchange's facade. It's a modern building, all angular planes...and glass. Lots and lots of glass. Enough glass that...when the light flares, it's...obvious.
Most of the building remains dark. The upper stories are still wreathed in shadow.
But at ground level...
Spotlights come to life, illuminating the building's sign. The looping and cursive script spelling out the structure's name and purpose. Beneath it, the main entrance slides open. Locks release, motors hum, shutters part. The doors open.
Behind those doors, within the darkened foyer... one flourescent light flares. Then another, another. A line of light snaking forward, deeper into the building, into the depths of the stock exchange. A corridor of illumination - leading all the way to the main trading hall.
The message is clear.
Now that's just too damned convenient.
Soma is actually across the street, wedged into a nearby alleyway, hidden by the darkness. There was no way he was going to walk into the drop site without doing some casing of the location... in fact, he's been around Bangkok most of the day, having arrived early in the morning. Coffee shop tables, newsstands, even a passing noodle cart at one point. He may have been a desk jockey but he's got the 'oomph' for field work, you know? Something innate.
As the lights blink on in the should-be-closed stock exchange, he knows something is seriously awry here. For starters, that's got the be the damned stupidest way to get anyone to come in the building he can think of, and as he glances around and then darts across the street, he's berating himself for being so damned stupid as to walk into it, too. Ah well... he's a cop, not a ninja. Let thems what is superspies worry about that.
The greenish glare of fluorescent lights are not kind to Soma's dusky features as he swings inside the door, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing the silenced Beretta M9 he prefers to use in the field... the heavy cylinder of a silencer extending from the barrel as he slams it on. If they want to be cloak and dagger about this, fine. You can use lethal force when your contact is playing third-rate detective novel tricks.
"Not that it makes me feel any better about this," Soma mutters to himself, arms swinging down in front of him, making a 'V' with the gun as he darts from shadow to shadow, following the light.
He's a trained Interpol Agent. No fool, he. Clearly, he isn't impressed by the drama.
But that assumes the drama was /supposed/ to impress.
When one puts on a big showy display, with tricks that fit within the conventions of cinematic genre...
...well, there must be reasons.
The only question is, are those reasons obvious? Or not?
The Thai Stock Exchange building is empty. Or at least, nearly so. Deserted corridors. Warm and stifling air - it is hot in Thailand, and this structure was never meant to go without air conditioning or powered ventilation. Both of which are shut down. There's only the lights, drawing a clear path towards the main floor of the building, the great hall in which trading is normally conducted.
It is deserted now. Save for the point at which the line of light terminates. A sole desk, a terminal used, in the day, by a Stock Exchange employee. Beneath a great electronic sign used to display the flow and shift of commodities. The display is off. But the computer, at least, is on. The screen lit, casting a glow over the sole individual sitting behind it.
The sound of typing fills the room.
She looks up, at Soma's approach. An elfin teenage girl, dressed in t-shirt and shorts. Her legs crossed, casually, feet clad in in-line skates.
Meanwhile, somewhere inside the building, Katelynn is casually walking along, drinking a soda she got from one of the vending machines. What is she doing in here? And why? And who let her in? Wait a minute, this isn't twenty questions.
She walks along, heading in the general direction of Soma and that mysterious young girl. Is she here for Soma or the girl, or is she here on her own agenda? That has yet to be seen...
He's not tricked. For starters, Soma has had the bejeezus beat out of him by a number of schoolgirls lately in his cover as a professional street fighter. For two, he used to live in southern California. So Soma doesn't hesitate when he sees the figure at the computer, inocuous appearance or no, and swings the M9 in line to aim at her. It's a violent action, sure... more warning than threat. Some cop movie stereotypes are based on real theories. Even if you don't plan on shooting someone, you'd bloody well be prepared to.
The faded purple of the agent's irises is almost luminous against the dark background and lighting of the cavernous Stock Exchange. He takes a step toward the desk, making sure to keep some degree of cover between himself and this mystery figure. After all, she might have a gun too, and the low lighting is not helping. He's nervous -- a perfectly understandable reaction -- but he's keeping it under control.
A barely perceptible flicker of silver-black along the edge of those faded purple eyes actually is more surprising than the situation. "You seem pretty satisfied with all this," the agent says, keeping his bead. "An awful lot of trouble to get one person out here, though."
The girl laughs, a quiet sound. Her lips twitch, curving upwards. She grins at the Interpol agent, her eyes shining with reflected light.
"Yeah," she replies, "innit?"
She doesn't seem alarmed by the gun. Quite the contrary. If anything, the firearm amuses her even more. She stares straight down the weapon's barrel. The look in her eyes is intense, piercing. Like she can see every curve, every groove, of the silvered bore.
Then she breaks eye contact, turning back to the lit computer terminal in front of her. Her fingers move, once again, gliding across the keys. The soft sound of typing fills the air, once again. She's still smiling.
The light is poor, but if Soma knows his fighters, he might recognise her. Might. She isn't a big name in the fighting world, with only a handful of public appearances. But her name is Riko Koganei. Known as the student of one Seishirou Ryouhara. A man wanted by MI6 and the British Government...on suspicion of terrorist activities.
She types, casual, unpeturbed.
"But what makes you think," she continues, "you're alone?"
Indeed, what makes him think he's alone? Katelynn is getting closer and closer to where Riko and Soma are. She's still walking casually, almost as though it's just another day in paradise for her. But for those who know her, something's definitely not right here...
"I have my ways," Soma says cryptically. It's true, too; there's no other people nearby, at least not people he can sense. And while he doesn't recognize Riko from the fighting world, you'd best believe he's got the various most-wanteds of many world governments committed to memory. He is, after all, an intelligence analyst.
The typing seems to bother him somewhat, but there's nothing particularly *malicious* about Riko's movements. For all he knows, she could be sending IMs to her friends about this awesome prank she pulled, though the Interpol agent doubts that's the case. Maybe she's reading his credit cards. Soma himself doesn't have anything to hide, secure in the knowledge that Interpol's quite effective cyber crimes division has made his official record nothing short of hackproof by conventional means. Soma starts circling Riko's position, trying to keep the lay of the room in mind. She's going to try to run. She's going to have some flash-bang sort of trick to let her run. At least, that's what the dossier says. He doesn't bring up what little he knows about her yet; she won't be impressed and it doesn't get him anything but suspicion.
He does pause, however, as something brushes across his sixth sense, somewhere in the building.
Interesting.
Soma does Riko the courtesy of raising her an eyebrow, putting the question to her. "Unexpected company, accomplice, or something else?" he asks.
A flourish, a dramatic keystroke. Then Riko lifts her hand, and looks up. She tilts her palms, fingers splayed, pointing towards the ceiling. She angles her head, blinking her eyes in a calculated picture of pure innocence.
"Good question," she says, glibly.
"The answer is yes."
Her smile widens, dancing up a notch. She remains seated in the chair, behind the desk, still grinning at Soma. In the harsh patterns of illumination cast by the few working lights in the cavernous trading hall, her face is a crazy-quilt mask of light and shadow.
"We'll get to her in due time. But -you're- Soma Travedi, right? It'd totally suck if you were the wrong guy."
The drink is finished, and tossed into a nearby trash receptacle. Katelynn adjusts her jacket and an evil smirk appears on her face. "I know you're in there, and I'm gonna find out who you are," She says with a soft sultry grin as she walks towards the door and slowly starts to open it, but doesn't open it all the way. Instead, she simply peeks inside.
There's a line between self-possession and arrogance. Part of Soma's mind is occupied trying to decide which side of the line Riko is on. She appears to be straddling it somewhat.
"You're asking as a matter of record," the undercover agent responds in a cool tone. It's not a question, it's a statement, and it's also the answer to Riko's question. Her blithe dismissal of his own question is as good as an answer: the agent can't see Katelynn, or identify her, but he knows that Riko expected her to be there. That makes him relax, but only somewhat. He's keeping his bead on the girl as a matter of procedure at this point. As nasty as the light is to Riko, it's just as bad to Soma; his black clothes and dark skin make him a grey-stomached ghost floating in the room, the twin spots of amethyst-hyacinth purple-blue of his eyes seemingly floating above.
"Whose records? Mine, yours? Interpol's kinda hard to crack..."
Riko rests a hand atop the computer monitor, her fingers tracing over the edge of the plastic.
"...not like 'ere. With all this fighting going on, it's like nobody cares about security."
Her hand rises from the monitor, her forefinger extended, pointing, thumb cocked at a ninety-degree angle. She points her faux-gun right back at Soma, holding the position for a moment. Before flicking it upwards.
"Violence. Fun, eh? Girl can find out all kind of things."
Riko shifts her head, then. Looking away from Soma. Her eyes turn, such that she's staring -directly- at the side door at the far end of the room. Rationally speaking, sitting in a pool of illumination and staring outwards, she shouldn't be able to see anything in the shadows. But, regardless, for a good few heartbeats, Riko stares directly at the slightly ajar door... the one Katelynn is crouched behind.
She turns back to Soma.
Smiles.
OK, so Katelynn knows who's in there. But is she just gonna burst in there yelling 'Surprise! Surprise!' Nope, she just lets the door open all the way, but she's nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she's hiding on the ceiling, or perhaps she's hiding out of sight. Who knows? Better keep on your guard...
"Now, if this were a police procedural, I'd be throwing out a really nifty one liner right now. Something about adding cyberterrorism to the list of things you're wanted for questioning for. But I really don't care at the moment." Soma's head barely turns; he glances over his shoulder at the doorway. He KNOWS someone is there. That's the handy thing about psychic powers: you don't need to see something to know it. And it does occur to him, briefly, that Riko tricked him here to blow his cover to whoever's hiding out of sight... but if she's good enough to hack into Interpol's mainframe, then why dick around with in-person stuff? She could be YouTube-ing this right now for all he knows. No... the second person has a different purpose, even if he can't ferret out what.
Slowly, the agent lowers his M9, slipping it back into his shoulder holster. It is, after all, a symbolic gesture; he's still armed, and has the quick reflexes to get any of a variety of weapons back into his hands if this goes sour. "So we'll say this. Tell me whatever it is you brought me here with this big musical number to show me. If it's useful, you and I go back to Singapore all peaceful like and I turn you over to MI6 with a note about your good behavior." He doesn't bother to say what the other way this can go is.
Soma heads back to the Thailand main area.
"Jeez, you're ungrateful, aren'tcha?"
Riko arches an eyebrow at Soma. Then, she grasps the computer screen in front of her, spinning it round. A fluid twist. There's just enough slack in the cables for the LCD monitor to rotate completely.
"I'm helping you, y'know? C'mon, don't tell me you Interpol folk like what that big meanie Vega is doing."
Riko indicates the display with one slender finger, leaning forward. Her eyes narrow, her grin turning conspiratorial. Or possibly predatory.
Upon the screen is not any sort of sensitive trading information. No business records. Nothing like what one would expect, on a computer at the centre of Bangkok's financial district, in the very heart of the nation's stock exchange. No. Instead, it's a simple map of Thailand - one location highlighted. Latitude, longitude. Coordinates. Geographical information. A densely packed sidebar.
"Why, I'm here to help!"
Pause.
"Well. Not really. But hey."
All the while, Katelynn is carefully listening, taking note of what is being said. Apparently, there's a small device around her ear that captures sight and sound all while she's mostly out of sight. Could it be that she's doing some undercover work of her own?
Intriguing. The undercover agent lets his gaze flicker to the screen for a moment. He's seen the relief map of Thailand enough times to know what it looks like. The US, England, Russia, even China have contributed images to Interpol's analysis effort, even though the ICPO is not, in fact, working to unseat Vega so much as they are using their efforts to process information for other people. "We don't," Soma says, nonchalantly. "But it's not our job to run in there and oust him, see... at least, not officially." He's been with the agency long enough to know of Agent Chun-li, for example, and her intense anti-Shadaloo work. If she's not there somewhere, the agent muses, he'll eat his gun.
Still, it doesn't help to oversell it. After all, coordinates don't really say anything other than "there's something here". He's not exactly ungrateful for Riko's... well, whatever this is... but he's also a natural skeptic. Soma takes a few steps forward. Nothing threatening, but enough to give him a better look at the map. "What's this telling me that a sheaf of spy satellite photos isn't, though?" he asks. It's a perfectly legitimate question. "And more importantly... what's the accomplice of a known terrorist doing helping the ICPO?"
"What, us crazy folk aren't allowed to be altruistic from time to time?"
Riko pouts, mock-sulking. She feigns a hurt look, giving Soma a pair of overly large eyes. The sort of expression that says 'I'm just a cute kid'. It'd probably be more convincing if it wasn't for the circumstances - standing in the middle of a deserted stock exchange building in the heart of a conflict-ravaged city. Or if her expression didn't return to its usual cocky composure so very quickly.
She rises, getting to her feet, out of the chair. She glides out from behind the desk, moving on the wheels of her in-line skates.
"I mean, yeah, yeah, Seishirou-sama's totally here for his own reasons, sure. But it's not like we can -use- all this lovely information we've gathered. And since I've found like extra stuff, what's the harm, hey?"
Riko tilts her head, peering suddenly, into the shadows again. Her voice is raised in a strange fashion, in a manner that carries clear across the room. Like she's speaking for a wider audience than just the Interpol agent.
Which is precisely what she's doing.
"Pop quiz," Riko chirps, "you heard of General Sonthi Boonyaratglin?"
He does. "Head honcho of the Thai army, to use the American slang I picked up in college," Soma murmurs. The raised voice is not lost on him. Perhaps it's just someone out there a little smarter than Soma, who walked into a poorly lit room with only expectations and a handgun. It occurs to him the sudden change in tone and pitch is as much for his benefit as the mystery listener's. "Looks a little too much like Muammar ql-Qaddafi for my taste." There's a moment as he processes the information he should know about this guy, and sets his jaw for a moment. "Dropped off intelligence service radar a while ago."
Wait a sec.
Caution be damned; this IS good info, and if Riko just wants to hand it to him, so much the better. Leaning forward at the waist, the undercover agent glances at the map again. "Are you trying to tell me you found him?" Soma asks, glancing at Riko out of the corner of his eye. He's leaping to conclusions. After all, nobody really knows WHAT happened to the General, only that he dropped off the map... at least as far as the ICPO is concerned. If the US or other powers know, it's not information they're sharing. "That could mean a lot of things. Possible nationalist resistance... Shadaloo captive... puppet state. It's *useful*, but it's not exactly *pleasant*, is it?"
"Meep," Riko answers, shrugging theatrically.
She cocks a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the computer monitor behind her. The one she spun round earlier, the one still displaying a map of Thailand. And a very specific location.
"it's not intel we can sell."
She taps her chin.
"Well," she amends, "not easily, anyway. Too much trouble."
Riko clapses her hands together, hooking her fingers behind her head. She stretches a little. She doesn't look much like a mastermind, being short, petite, adolescent and female. But when she speaks...
"Interesting man," she says, in a precise, didactic voice, "the first Muslim to lead the Royal Thai Army. He's a Muslim, y'know. Minority in Thailand. Lotsa ethnic and religious tension, 'specially in the Southern Provinces. Lotsa violence and stuff blowing up."
Riko rolls forward a little, the polyurethane wheels of her skates gliding over the polished floor of the stock exchange chamber.
"That's why they put him in charge. Malay Muslim insurgents, fighting the government. Now a Muslim military leader. Compromise and stuff. Someone everyone can get behind. He's supposed to be well-liked, too. Major support in the Army. Popular. Honourable guy."
She stops, pressing a skate brake against the floor.
"Which is probably why Shadaloo's got him locked up."
Smile.
"What do you think, Agent Travedi?"
There's a moment as Soma crosses his arms over his chest. This is his specialty, right? Taking intel and turning it into strategic planning and goal setting. And this is certainly something he can use. "What do I think? Let's assume for the moment that this intel is correct, and I'll do you the credit of assuming it is." Why lie about it? Soma is alert, but he's not so suspicious he's going to turn this affair into something it's not. If Riko is really working with, say, Shadaloo... if she's out to sell Soma down the river, she should have sprung her trap by now. And if she wanted to have a bunch of idiot soliders lured into a trap, there's certainly more efficient ways of doing it than this little tete-a-tete. The mass media, for one.
Without responding further, he reaches over and points at two spots on the map with his finger, coming close to but not touching the LCD screen. One is the Shadaloo northeast defensive line near Kampuchea; the other is the dead center of the map. "Shadaloo's pretty smart. They keep the prison camps in the center of their territory and run their comm lines around them in a circle. The bay keeps Bangkok more or less invasion proof. There's not going to be a charge of the Light Brigade to get him out of there. But."
Soma steps back, rubbing at his chin. He's got to think this over. "But he really is the solution. Bloody clever, too. If he survives, he's a hero to Thai nationalists and world freedom fighters alike. If he DIES, he's a martyr... certainly why Vega hasn't killed him yet. Muslim nations would love an Islamic southeast Asian state. Western countries would love to have rescuing him from Shadaloo on their ledger sheets. And just about every one of their armies would spectacularly mess up an extraction. So what I THINK is, a non-aligned surgical team -- maybe some NGO, or the UN -- needs to penetrate the lines and get him out. Boonyaratglin the hero is the best option."
There's a pause, before the agent adds, in amused tones: "I'm also wondering what coin I'm expected to pay for this stunning little bit of information."
"Dunno," Riko replies, with a negligent little toss of her head, "maybe just remember that Her Majesty's government tends to overreact? Seishirou-sama only blew up /one/ little bridge, and it's not like the Thames doesn't have plenty of /those/."
She smiles, winningly, her teeth gleaming in the odd light of the stock exchange chamber.
She begins to move, again. Pushing one foot against the floor, then another. Sliding easily upon the wheels of her skates, moving silently. She rolls towards one of the walls, laying a hand close to, but not precisely touching the surface.
"Hm," she muses, out loud, tilting her head, as if sensing something unseen.
Perhaps she is.
There is, after all, someone else listening to this encounter. Recording it, too. The electrical signature of the equipment is distinctive enough. Riko doesn't voice that, though. She just turns back to glance at the Interpol agent.
"Like, y'know, I'm not sayin' we're /good/ guys? Just we don't really care one way or another. It ain't useful to /us/..."
Riko laughs lightly.
"But you? Why not? Then there's the Ikari too..."
She presses her hand fully against the wall.
"If you're asking me to expunge his record, I'm not doing it sight-unseen," Soma says guardedly. It's true. He trusts Riko so far but that's about all. They very well COULD get to every prison camp in central Thailand and the General might not be there. "But if the information plays out, I'll see what I can do. I used up my favors with MI6 getting into Bangkok," he admits, hopefully so that Riko will understand the position she's put him in. "But I'm sure that some reinvestigation of certain incidents on the ICPO's suggestion of new evidence can't hurt." For someone obsessed with justice, he can be pretty damned duplicitous when he's of the mind.
He tenses up when Riko touches the wall, priming muscles he'd let go slack as he considered the map to move if necessary.
"The Ikari are an option. Those two... the famous ones, I forget their names... did fight those tanks to a standstill, after all." Satellite image access is a wonderful thing. "I'll see what I can do. But can I give you a bit of advice, Miss Koganei?" His voice is a little taut, ready to spring as he is, but there's a tone of even amusement in his voice. "Neutrality's hard to do. Everyone's answerable to something, someday."
"Neutral? Your word, not mine," Riko retorts, looking over her shoulder. She gives another of those bright and sunny smiles.
She seems not at all concerned by the agent's dire warning. His authority means little to her. As does, in all honesty, the opinion of international law enforcement. Not as such.
It's just not good business to burn all of your bridges - not if you don't have to.
That literal burnt bridge in London, well. That was necessary. Really.
She keeps one hand against the wall. She raises the other, giving a jaunty little wave.
"We're on -our- side."
And that's when all the lights in the chamber -flash-, every single flourescent in the trading hall blazing - going from perfect dark to perfect bright with unnatural abruptness...enough that a few light fixtures blow out in a spray of sparks.
It lasts only a moment, before the trading hall of the stock exchange plunges back into near-darkness. The only illumination provided by the still-lit screen of the computer Riko was using, displaying that map of Thailand. Prison camp locations, prisoner manifests...and the names of key officials highlighted. Leaders of the disposed regime.
If Soma didn't notice it before, there's a little flash memory thumb drive atop the terminal. Riko is a full service ninja, after all.
But of the girl herself, there's no sign.
And there's the flash-bang.
To his credit, Soma's not bothered by it, nor surprised by it. He knows, in the back of his mind, the 'criminal profile' of people like Riko. They love drama. They love superiority. And what's the point of winning if there's nobody around to know that they've lost, right? It's that whole thing about ego. Something Soma himself is quite glad he left behind, or at least assumes he has.
A flash of silver suddenly illuminates the agent's body, with a pale and cold light. It comes from an energy form in his hand, the normally crackling black edges consumed by the darkness around him.
The first thing Soma does is pocket the flash drive into his jacket. The second thing he does is drive the light-dagger in his hand into the hard drive of the computer. It's not physical force, per se, but it doesn't have to be; the blade of semi-tangible force messes up the computer's innards but good. There will be no accidental retrieval of this data, thank you.
Then he sees about making his exit. He doesn't walk out the front door; instead he makes his way up to the third floor by a service entrance and, crouching catlike on a fire escape, leaps to the alley below in a nearly soundless crouch before standing up and dusting himself off, Riko's comment ringing through his head with some degree of grim amusement. "The whole point of a side is that a side is one half of a whole," the agent mutters to himself as he starts heading for his rendezvous at the harbor.
The whole point is determining where the other side of your side happens to be.
Log created on 21:59:22 06/26/2007 by Riko, and last modified on 11:43:35 06/29/2007.