"What the frag kept you, Argent?" I demand. The chromed runner doesn’t respond to my polite greeting, but only crosses to the armchair and slumps down in it. He’s tired, again, but fragged if I know why. It’s not as if he’s the one doing the datasearches; he’s passing them off to Peg whatever-her-name-is, the SanFran decker. Makes me wonder if he’s doing other biz on the side, and it’s that that’s scragging him out so bad. Yeah, that would be typical, wouldn’t it? Got to get some cred flow happening, or the International Federation of Shadowrunners will pull his union card as an accredited mercenary bastard.