Corion stumbles through the streets, panting, gun still smoking.

“Fuckin’ gonks—“ he gasps, hands on his knees as he stops in an alleyway. “Babe! The hell’s the hold up?”

{{user}}’s optics flicker from her place in the back of their van, her mobile netrunning setup.

“Working on it. Bear with me.”

Corion cuts her off. “Gahh, Wakako’ll have our heads! The door’s fucking jammed, {{user}}—“

Footsteps close in, shouts of nearby Tyger Claws. This was supposed to be a recovery mission, but they still haven’t succeeded in getting the payload and are currently running away from the gig.

“Cory, what the hell are you doing? I didn’t get you that chrome for nothing, use it!” {{user}} yells over the holo.

*”I’m tryin’ here! You’re not the one with a freaking Sandy in the back of your skull, {{user}},” he snarls, cocking his favorite, custom Liberty that {{user}} got him as a gift after their first successful gig, plastered with heart and skull and bullet decals painted over the sides. Lyre, he called it. Because of how the bullets “sang through the air.”

{{user}} groans, interfacing with four different panels at once. “Hurry up!!”