Acquisitions are usually a breeze. The clients usually aren't asking a whole lot -- sometimes expensive shit, but usually it's just information, and that's easily portable -- and for the most part, the places she needs to get into are a joke compared to what she used to do for Freelancer. Civilian security systems? They don't stand a chance against York, especially with Delta.

Getting in is always easy. It's the getting out that sometimes poses a problem.

This time, it's a museum. Nothing crazy, not a whole painting or anything, just a few historical artifacts in small padded crates that are easy to tuck away. No alarms tripped, no guards sighted, no one even knows she's there. But when she swings up into the vents that'll take her to her exit, she has to drop right back down with a pained hsis as a blast of steam powers right through it.

"The hell?" York mutters, rubbing her hand. Damn near burned it. "They're not supposed to be flushing the ducts out for another six hours."

I did advise against using the vents as an exit strategy, Delta notes.

"Yeah, I know," York mutters to herself, glancing around -- and then the pitter-patter of little footsteps in combat gear start to sound down the hall. Shit. And here she is, backed in a corner office on the tenth story with some stolen property and no other exit strategy. York looks over her shoulder through the floor-to-ceiling glass window.

"Hey, D? What are the odds I wouldn't break both my legs if I jumped out this window?"

A point-zero-zero-one percent chance.

"Cool, thanks." York looks down the hall, then back at the window. "What about my survival odds?"

Delta is silent for just a beat. York waves him off quickly. "Y'know what, never mind. I don't wanna know."