Her ankle length coat was seamless, and the black leather draped as softly as silk. It was tank grown, of course, but clearly tailor made. This was not one of the cheap off the shelf coats. This had been grown to order.

And, he thought, fit was something it did real good.

It was one of the last things he ever thought. He died with the smirk on his lips. She rolled him face down into the garbage that filled the gutters, to avoid looking at the grotesque visage. That, and it was just easier to recover wetware out of the back of a head. There was less to sift through.

By the time she was done, the vermin were congregating. She could hear the chittering of rats, and noises from higher lifeforms, too. She pulsed the glove field, vaporizing the gore that coated it, then carefully double checked the seals on the transport vat. Finally, she turned up the collar of her coat against the persistent, heavy rain that had already washed away much of the evidence of her visit and walked away.

Job 389281: SUCCESS.