“You done in there? Lincoln gets pissy if we don’t check in.”

“Do you want to fish around in this thing, Art? Because I’ve got eight hundred pounds of arachnobear here that I would love to pull my arm out of.”

“Point taken. Just try to hurry, please? Last time we took this long he sent me on recon with Bore-cra… Lame-cra… uh,” Arthur paused to ponder this conundrum.

“Suckrates?” Nessie suggested through the door.

“Whatever. Soccer Tees. And let me tell you, woman, that man never shuts up. Ever. Seventeen hours with that old bastard in a surveillance van. I swear he was just quoting “Dust in the Wind” by the end."

“Oh god, was he singing? He sang “Carry on Wayward Son” last time I was stuc- got it!" She exclaimed, stepping out of the backroom with the memory shard in an evidence bag. With a quick swipe of a claw, she sliced open the topmost layer of skin on her left arm, still dripping, and yanked it off with a wince. “Always stings.”

“Suck it up and hurry. I can only listen to so much Kansas.”