You give the deckteam shit for misidentifying your Bainbridge and graciously accept a high berth near the exit corridor. Works every time.
The robots and gizmos are ‘socking’ your flit so you know you’re in the stix again–everywhere else they’d be calling it ‘bagging’. Either way, no dust on the custom flexx. It’ll still drape like a hyperswoop but it’s fair camo for a casual glance in this crowded berthing.
You DX your pad’s tap and get back four bars. Every byte of data gets routed through the flit’s on-board before it floats into your noggin–you can never be too secure. As you walk away with your kit bag slung over your shoulder and your rollie in tow you get the feeling you’re missing something. Oh yeah. You throw the Berthmaster in the watchhouse a curt wave. He probably thinks you’re thanking him for the prime spot in the berthing, but you’re really making sure he sees your gear. Need him to think you’re in town for a long one not just here to kill his wife.
Word count: 192