By the time she’d reached Frankie’s (the only bar in Totaris so dingy the police leave it to itself), Camile’s combat state had almost warn off, and fear was well and truly circulating amidst the adrenaline in her veins. These days it seemed she could barely keep it up for more than three hours, though that jump onto the ledge would have worn her out more quickly than usual.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” the bartender grunted at her as she took a seat on a filthy stool.
“The supplier turned out to be a fake. It was a set up. I barely got away with my life, let alone a new ID.”
“So you’ll be sticking around?” He passed her a whiskey in a glass coated in an inch of grime. She downed the drink in one go, eyes deliberately shut.
“Not to do your dirty work, or the cops’. I didn’t ask to be biochemically turned into an instrument of war, and I sure as hell didn’t ask to be treated like a thing, like a…product. I just want to leave, to start over. I won’t sell myself again.”
“Not even for …Xander?”