The Hanger

Ton Lao couldn't remember any arguments she might have had. She thought of the string of jobs she'd had since leaving the mausoleum, of the constant bone-deep fatigue. Why would anyone choose to stay? Nye sounded so utterly certain. Not a hint of quiver or hesitation. The air was charged with that particular smell like burning ozone and charred skin. Beneath her skin the circuits and ports anchoring the wires were shining silver. A fist of ice closing around her innards at the thought of having to give up.