Alice turned to face the chest of the biggest hack-job she’d ever seen. At least seven feet tall, his shaved and tattooed head wedged against the duct’s thin metal ceiling. A blue zip scar connected his head to a pale Caucasian neck, another scar connected his neck to a coffee brown torso. Two wider flesh welds joined the torso to long muscled arms, the left thinner, knuckles silver, while the right looked strong enough to buckle steel. A Colonial Marines tattoo glowed on his right bicep—similar to Alice’s but newer, the ink white, the dates different. He wore standard army pants, thick canvas with adaptive camouflage. As she watched, they blurred to mimic the wall behind. Black combat boots completed the street-punk ensemble.