Raman stands along the shoulder of the road. Gleaming steel claws protrude 
from the studded black bracer sheathing his right forearm. He watches the 
bulging eyes of the man hanging from the razor-edged blades. The man, like his 
companion sprawled nearby, wears the corporate uniform of the state patrol, and 
he is dying for his indiscretions. Blood streams from his midsection to pool on 
the hard-packed ground around his feet. Before long his eyes glaze over. His 
body goes limp. It is a death Raman considers unfortunate for the trouble it may 
bring, but wholly unavoidable.