If there was a Rhyme and a Reason, she was the Rhythm. 

Skeet Lawless, called “FLawless” by 90% of the skidmarks that were trying to get into her pants, glided easily over a poorly constructed wall between platforms, landing silently on the other side. She shook her head. The MetPo really were idiots. 

The shadow of a cruiser about three levels above her was hard to miss, even in the dodgy semi-shadows of the fifties. The platforms stretching between, above, below, and even through the levels cast all sorts of interesting shadows, but none of them could be mistaken for a cruiser. 

Idiots. 

With the grace of a lean wildcat Skeet used the nearest wall to push off and up, grabbing the edge of a wooden porch above. She swung her feet for inertia and disengaged, sailing with no difficulty to a window frame, where she crouched to wait out the cruiser. If she knew the MetPo (and she did), their puny reptilian brains would begin to itch when she didn’t readily appear, at which point one of the knuckle-dragging baboons would suggest to the others that they quietly and stealthily lower their altitude until they could see her again. After a bit of congratulatory grunting and drooling, they would carry that plan out. And Skeet would pay them an incredibly unpleasant visit. 

The hum of the cruiser’s pulsar engines was low and could escape notice if someone wasn’t actively listening for it. The flashers were off and the siren was silent (for once; the MetPo loved their ear-bleeding toys) as the cruiser, facing away from the window, descended. A pair of officers hung out the side bays, sweeping their rifle barrels back and forth as they searched for Skeet with increasingly puzzled expressions. Sometimes Skeet wondered if having the I.Q. of a shovel was a requirement of joining the force. 

She sighed and flicked her Kommando Se7en™ Wrist Blades into place. They were a custom order, one of the first things she’d spent cash on instead of stealing. They were beautiful ceramic daggers, each six inches of serrated pain. Skeet had even paid extra to have them colored red. 

Diving out and away, Skeet slammed her blade into one officer’s shoulder, her weight carrying her under him as her feet caught the edge of the hatch and she flung him out into space. The other ‘Po spun at his partner’s surprised scream, and got his throat opened for his trouble. He staggered back and tipped out of the cruiser. That left the third twit, the one piloting the damn thing. 

Skeet wiped her blades on the upholstery and raised her eyebrows at the pilot, whose weapon was in the back. With her. He himself was gawking over his shoulder, apparently uncertain how to proceed. “… Halt?” He finally asked. 

She almost rolled her eyes, but smiled instead. “And if I do?” 

The pilot’s face screwed up in thought. “Uhm, you’ll be given leniency?” 

“No, you’ll call in backup and I’ll get killed,” Skeet snapped. Then he made the move she’d been waiting for; he reached for his ankle piece. 

Skeet smashed her heel into the back of his head before he could lean back up. His spare service pistol skittered away across the floor and slid out the left-hand hatch. If he wasn’t concussed, he was at least unconscious. She took the joystick and twisted it, aiming the cruiser at a nearby business, then stamped on the accelerator. 

The little cruiser bucked and shot forward, straight for the concrete wall, and Skeet leapt out, catching an electrical cable strung between a platform and a boutique. She sliced it and swung across the void. Behind her, the cruiser plowed into the wall, which buckled and crushed it. 

Landing and rolling into a shaded alley, Skeet patted her Neo™. It beeped happily. The package was safe.