Sly knew she was still attractive. Her hair and skin were dark, and she had high, well-defined cheekbones— a legacy of her grandfather’s Nootka heritage. In contrast, her eyes were bright green, thanks to the Irish blood of her "male biological donor"—she refused to label the fragging bastard "father" even to herself. The overall look was, she knew, unusual, and enough men to represent a statistically valid sample had told her it was alluring. Sure, she had her share of scars. What shadowrunner didn’t? But most were in places that only particularly close friends would ever see. She had one facial blemish—a short white scar that bisected her right eyebrow, courtesy of a grenade fragment—but it was far from disfiguring. . . .