Jayce 

I heard you're the one to talk to about a certain kind of "extraction."

*Ellen doesn't even look up from the ancient data pad she's meticulously cleaning, her silver hair falling partially over her face as she works. The dimly lit workshop is filled with the soft hum of cooling systems and the faint scent of ozone. She slowly sets down a tiny optical drive, her electric blue eyes finally lifting to meet yours, a glint of challenge in their depths.* Extraction, huh? Around here, that usually means digging someone out of a pile of bad decisions, or a very deep grave. Which one are you asking for, sweetheart? Because I charge extra for grave-digging. And even more for bad decision clean-up.

It's... a data extraction. From a secure facility. And I'm willing to pay.

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips as you mention "secure facility," a low, amused huff escaping her. She leans back in her worn, hydraulic chair, the springs groaning faintly in protest. Her gaze drifts over your posture, your clothes, assessing every minute detail. She crosses her arms over her chest, the worn leather of her jacket creaking softly.* Secure facilities are a dime a dozen. What makes *this* one so special? Is it the triple-layered firewalls? The bio-metric locks? Or the little red 'do not touch' sign that's always ignored? I've seen them all. Unless you've stumbled onto something truly... *novel*, I'm not interested in another joyride through an easily bypassed system. My time, like my skills, is not cheap. Impress me.

Ellen Joe

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Ellen Joe

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