His lips split into a broad grin, the flash of white teeth pushing any remaining traces of hesitance or deception from his face.<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Great. Have a seat, yeah?”</span></span>While he had been doing his dramatic little presentation of the deal, the operating chair in the center of the room had rearranged itself (via discreet android) into a small, bistro-style table and two matching chairs had been brought out. The fence plopped familiarly into one of the elegant little seats and set his palm flat against an apparently random panel of the morphing table; a light ran beneath it, revealing a hidden scanner, and with a short whir a small, screen-like square appeared in the center. Miniature holographic lasers depicted a flawless, three-dimensional image projected just above the center of the surface.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“This guy,”</span></span>he said casually, tapping with his left hand and then enlarging the square that appeared with his first two fingers and spinning it to face her,<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“is Dr. Hans Roman. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”</span></span>The image was just a copy of a news reel hologram, with an image of the man’s headshot and a small blurb of information. The headline read ‘Laboratory Explosion Floods Transport Station’, and date was from just over two years ago. The man appeared fairly nondescript; maybe fifty years old, with a receding hairline and the characteristic white lab coat collar. Though the picture was hardly a mugshot, his face held the same haunted stare as a traumatized victim of the penal system. The story catalogued the event as an accident, as fatal as it had been unexpected- the solid, alloy-crafted ground beneath one of the busiest transporter stations in the Dome had suddenly cracked and spouted a thick, gooey liquid like some freakish alien geyser, killing 197 people and grievously injuring several others. Dr. Roman and his team of researchers, previously unknown to the general public, had received complete blame for the explosion, which was just as well: none of them had been left to refute the sentence. Xen gave the hologram a little push to the side, so that Joey could still easily read it, while he pulled up a second image.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Roman’s research was… controversial, to put it politely,”</span></span>he continued,<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“and, obviously, any and all government-related agency involvement was denied.”</span></span>He flipped a few more news broadcasts toward her, detailing the few announcements made to the effect.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“I could go into the conspiracy theories and sordid details, but the bottom line is this: there would be quite the shitstorm if proof of the government’s involvement could, somehow, be acquired.” </span></span><br/><br/>Was he telling her everything? Absolutely not. Was he even telling her the half of it? Nope. But for her purposes, this should be enough; it should get her into the right areas, with the right attitude. And, conveniently enough, if she were to fall to opposing forces who sought information, they would find she had little to offer them. Gil approached calmly from somewhere, and set two large, metallic cups in front of each of them. They had a milk-and-coffee consistency, but smelled of flowers and tasted heavily of spices.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“It’s not as simple as walking into the old lab and grabbing a file,”</span></span>he said, pausing to sip,<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“because of course it’s not.”</span></span>Another small, ‘eh-what-are-you-gonna-do-right’ shrug lifted his shoulders and he set his cup down again.<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“The explosion and subsequent flood totally buried the place; no official effort was made to clear it up, and any unofficial one was met with… more accidents.”</span></span>His face darkened very briefly with disapproval, but he blinked it away, pulling up more 3D images. This time, they were of the section of the Dome in question; maps that more resembled mutable blueprints than anything. He zoomed in on several areas, the images rotating to show their depth.<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“It very recently came to light – for a few people – that another entrance may still exist.”</span></span>A small hallway glowed on the blueprint, coming from the other side and below the main shape of the Dome.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“So, if this mythical passage exists, and damning, undamanged evidence exists, and you don’t die from atmospheric toxicity or guerilla forces, then it should be a fairly simple matter to bring the four trillion haul.”</span></span><br/><br/>He paused, taking another long sip of the Nulterran tea and considering one of her last questions.<span style="color: #FFBF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">“And why <span style="font-style: italic">shouldn’t</span> it be you, exactly?”</span></span><br/><br/><br/>-x-x-x-<br/><br/><br/>Both women paused, Celi turning her head only a fraction toward the detective with an unreadable expression. Was he really trying to pull this stunt? Trying to make Mos’drin’s lackey think he was an unaffiliated party who had just casually strolled up? Briefly, the bounty hunter wondered when he had even dodged back to make his random approach. There was a curious mixture of being impressed with his guts and puzzled by his blatant stupidity. There was no way that would work, no way the alien hadn’t noticed his probably-stupid little U-turn or –<br/><br/>“No… no, I did not, sir.” The fem in black responded with an edge to her voice, an edge of barely-contained aggression. Her body still faced Celi, fists clenched, but she had turned her face and her two forward sets of eyes toward the detective. The blonde woman inwardly rolled her eyes. She was surrounded by idiots.<br/><br/>Despite that, she admitted with begrudging not-disapproval (it wasn’t approval, though, let’s be serious) it had almost worked. If she would just fix her second set of eyes on the man, it would give Celi the opening she needed to get in a debilitating strike and stay away from those shocker gloves, probably before her back-up arrived. The alien wasn’t perceptive to her environment, but she was clearly combat-oriented, refusing to take her focus from her perceived opponent. It was a slight risk, but the cadet had already taken the majority of it away with his act.<br/><br/>The bounty hunter dropped her shoulders and loosened her human muscles, letting her eye return to the opaque film of disuse. She turned toward the tag-along with a (totally false and disgusting) look of proper respect.<br/><br/>The retro-positioned eyes followed the first pair, landing on the detective.<br/><br/>In less time than it would take for a passer-by to comprehend, the bounty hunter landed a soaring round-house kick to the side of the Nultish fem’s head, sending her slamming into the unforgiving wall of the food station. She hit it full-force with a satisfyingly meaty sound, head ricocheting with momentum to slam even harder than the rest of her body. Without even waiting to be sure of the alien’s unconscious state, Celi knelt down and delved into her assailant’s clothing, searching for pockets and the contents potentially therein. She found a card, plastic and rectangular, but had no time to discern what it was or if it was even useful; she knew back-up had to be converging on them, and fast. Faster than before. Nultish communication was not limited in the same manner as human.<br/><br/>Without sparing a glance to the detective, she left the shop and pushed herself into the crowd, melding in with the ebb and flow of people, eyes keen but body relaxing into camouflage.