"I noticed a possible loophole when I was researching last week . . . a clause that ties the average length of prison sentences to recidivism rates. Theoretically, we could end up having negative-term sentences should the rate fall low enough." [quiet, slightly excited]

"Free to go! Aren't you going to help me find who did this?" [indignant]

[Narration test] That new law I'd put in the sky enters my mind. Failure to produce proper identification will result in detention for an indefinite amount of time—as long as it takes for some overworked public servant to determine if I am who I say I am . . . In other words, I'd be sitting in an Azorius jail for a long, long time. I couldn't let an arrest tarnish my reputation at New Prahv. It'd be like letting everything I've worked so hard for wash right into an open sewer.

My hand touches the vial of cleansing oils Janin had given me. I retrieve it from the satchel, then throw it down at the arrester's feet. Glass breaks, and a caustic odor fills the air. The arrester begins coughing and wheezing, and then I'm running, running. The arrester hails her partners, and then they're all after me, eyes bleary and red from the oil, snot trickling from their noses like busted faucets. It slows them down, but not by much. At every street, I keep looking for nooks and crannies that will take me back into the relative safety of the Thinktank, trying to ignore the fact that I've made things a million times worse for myself. There's no escape. I'd have to climb back inside, and I couldn't get up fast enough.