Getting dragged into trouble by a hapless bystander under attack.

Here, on the roof of the Down Quark Motel, was the closest that most residents of the Quark Motel wanted to get to nature. It was at the very edge of Wen's Landing's largest favela, caught between a poisonous alien jungle and a toxic urban jungle. The corroded, buggy security androids and overweight rent-a-cops that it sported around its entrances was still better than what the people who lived outside could expect... although for anyone with a few extra credits, bribing one's way to entry was easy. "Toasty" Velasquez didn't expect to stay here long, but for now, part of her meager income was moonlighting as rooftop security. Since open space was at a premium, the roof here had long since been converted to a flea market. It was already sunset, and after a long night, Gina had just woken up an hour ago, so she was way behind on her duties. Besides watching for thieves climbing the sides, her real job was to burn away the encroaching vines and creeping insectoids that were constantly spreading onto the motel's walls and roof from the fertile jungle it abutted. Many didn't know it, but this blocky oversized motel was once a prison; she even remembered the day, as a child, when she heard that it was being shut down, thinking it would mean her city was finally turning over a new leaf. But honestly, she couldn't have imagined it was less filthy, scattered full of trash, or vice-ridden before it became a home for people who were technically free, but in reality just lived in another kind of urban prison.

"Are you doing alright there, Toast?" the older camarian female, a slender, serpentine woman, who ran the noodle stand that Gina was putting her elbows on the counter of, asked politely. "I mean, I'm not telling you to get back to work or anything, I don't pay your salary... but you've been done with your soup for a while now. You want me to get you another or...?" _Or can you please stop taking up space I could be serving paying customers with _was the unspoken corollary. Aside from humans, goz, and zasarians, camarians were the other main inhabitants - they found the climate and the produce of Wen's Landing to be ideal, but the social climate less so.

Gina thought about ordering another, but she was still pretty full - Gillartie there had a good grasp of what all the major species' on this world liked to eat, and even though Gina was in a mood to complain about something, she couldn't rightly say it wasn't a hearty, satisfying bowl she could get for cheap, up here. The aphorism 'Meat's cheap on Wen's Landing' was usually a euphemism for the omnipresence of prostitution, but it was also true in the most literal culinary sense. "Yeah," she said with a sigh, "Better get my ass back to work, huh? 'Specially since I'm zeroed out again and won't be able to settle my tab with you until payday." The camarian gave a slightly annoyed hiss. "Ooooof courssssssse not. You know, if you weren't so lazy about clearing the vines you might have time to take odd jobs and do better for yourself, even if you DO feel like you're too good to join the chorus line over there." By way of meaning, Gillartie pointed to a cluster of a dozen bored-looking human and goz women wearing lacy lingerie, micro-skirts, colorful skin-tight tees, exaggerated parodies of schoolgirl uniforms and whatever else was helping hookers sell their wares this month.

"Eh," Gina said. "I'm just thinking long term, Gills. Got bigger goals than earning a living." She stood up slowly, pulling up her thigh-high striped stockings, strapping her flame-thrower tank back on, and giving a very unladylike burp. "Thanks for bein' understanding, I'll see you again tomorrow."

Just as she walked over to the edge of the roof and put up a "MAINTENANCE WORK, STAY BACK IF YOU DON'T WANT YOUR ASS BURNT OFF" sign at the border of her workspace as she prepared to burn and telekinetically pull the offending vegetation away, she heard a commotion and a sound of crying from behind her. A tall, slender goz cat-woman, with her ears folded tight against her head in dismay and her pink cocktail dress ripped and showing signs of cuts and bruises from a knife, came dashing through the crowded open-air market and coincidentally leapt onto the same noodle-shop stool that Gina had just stood up from minutes ago.

"Oh christ," Gina muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair and watching subtly out of the corner of her eye. "Every fuckin' day, I swear. Maybe it's not as bad as it looks." She continued to play it casual as she watched Gillartie serve the injured feline alien some soup on the house and tried to comfort her. All paying residents of the Down Quark Motel had a temporary tattoo or painted glyph of their room number somewhere on their body, and this one didn't have any such mark - that meant if Gina called the security desk they'd ignore her or, at worst, tell Gina to throw her out the moment the sun finished going down.

Just then, a quartet of tall, wide figures covered in heavy dark trenchcoats and moving with a very awkward and creepy-looking walk came up the stairs. Even from over 20 meters away in a crowded market, Velasquez could hear the scrape of chitin against chitin and smell the stench of filth wafting off of them. Zasarians. Most residents never wanted to see one of the vile insectile aliens up close, and they were usually kept out. But some of them actually were 'legitimate' tradesmen and laborers, plus they could always find ways to bribe or intimidate their way inside. Judging by the bulky metallic objects hidden under their coats, Gina could guess these weren't of the 'legitimate' kind. A lot of the locals in the market, particularly the humans, were reaching for shotguns and machetes and eyeing the newcomers warily, but nobody wanted a direct confrontation with such dangerous beings if they could help it. Nobody sane, that is.

Sure enough the shuffling zasarians made a beeline for where the catgirl was sitting - she squeaked in terror when they came up and tried to shrink in her seat, but didn't run. One of them produced a pair of dingy, scrap-metal shotguns and aimed them at her while another came up and extended two left arms to try and grab the goz's shoulder. "Oh well," Gina said casually, putting her hands behind her head and doing a nice stretch. "My brain's hatred centers needed a little maintenance workout, anyway." Running her hands down her svelte waist and figure, she bent over and picked up the well-used flamethrower. She might be able to scare the scum off, but although the goz girl was right in the line of fire and complicated matters, if these are members of the Zoxx swarm (and they probably are), she'd be inclined to kill them on principle.