I don’t know how Scarlett keeps acquiring these clothes.
Her ability to summon new outfits seemingly at will is almost supernatural. She was gone for a total of eighty-seven minutes with only a handful of credits in her pocket, and she returned with a new wardrobe for each of us, suited to the mission at hand. She does not steal – she waves receipts in Zila’s and Aurora’s faces and regaled them with tales of retail prowess, using arcane words like twofer and cleav discount.
Commonly known as ‘That Utter Git’, Sir Willikin is number three in the UCC’s Worst Presidents of All Time hit parade. He controlled the club for four years, with his cronies Lady Gardenia Nanbiter, Incontinence Pance, and Bernard Stiltskin. At a secret meeting it was eventually decided that he had to go. As all Presidents must map at least at least one new world, Sir Willikin was told of a newly discovered stone circle on an unmapped planet. There, he was told, time travelled at a very slow speed compared to Earth. Certain that he and his expedition would be back in time for dinner, Sir Willikin set off. At his departure there was much celebration and a highing of fives.
The tiny gangsters chasing us reach the alley mouth, filling the air with the BAMF! BAMF! of their disruptor blasts. The whoosh of charged particles rushes past my ear. We skid behind a dumpster full of discarded machine parts, looking for some kind of cover.
“I told you this was a bad idea!” Scarlett gasps.
“And I told you I don’t have bad ideas!” I shout, kicking through a doorway.
“Oh no?” she asks, cracking off a shot at our pursuers.
“No!” I drag her inside. “Just less amazing ones!”