The main bar of Milliways is mostly empty, and accordingly something approaching quiet. The door swings open to admit both a burst of miscellaneous chatter and a young brown-skinned woman wearing three parts of three different outfits, all of which have seen better days.

The woman stops abruptly at the threshold, blinks in shock for a moment, then turns to holler over her shoulder at someone not visible from the bar.

"Hancock! What in the fuck did you convince me to take, and why don't I remember it?!"

A scarred, noseless face appears behind her and mutely surveys the bar.

"This is not the Third Rail," the woman points out.

"Sweetheart, nothing I have does this," Hancock says. "And if it did, I wouldn't have it for long. Gotta be someone here with some answers." He ducks under her arm; she follows him, mildly exasperated but mostly curious, letting the door close behind them.

Both of them are armed and armored, the woman much more heavily, or at least visibly. She holds her shotgun casually, pointed off to the side but ready to bring it to bear if needed. Hancock, for his part, appears much less concerned with the prospect of imminent violence.