[center][color=seagreen][h3]The Scrapper[/h3][i]5 Meters[/i][/color][/center]
Toma shrugged and took a seat at the bar. She didn't care much for arguments. She cared even less for arguments between her employer and fixer. The diver eyed the fish the culinary fixer was gutting carefully. It looked fresh. More importantly it looked clean. She hoped that there was sushi on the menu. Despite a life spent beneath the waters of the South China Sea Toma made a habit of avoiding any fresh catch. The waters were full of pollutants and the average fish contained more plastic than she cared to consider. Synthetic proteins and tofu was the breakfast of champions in New Malacca.

The corporate suit worried Toma. He seemed flaky. He seemed like he'd crack. She suspected he'd drown all of them if it meant saving his own worthless skin. She'd happily relive him of his money though. She'd just keep an eye on her sonar all the while, especially when it came time to collect. Clean up jobs were never fun when you were the mess that needed cleaning.

She breathed in and leaned back, balancing precariously on the stool as she took in the room. The running water comforted her, reminded her of the deep, a simpler place, and a better place. The brutal minimalism of the room and the chef spoke to something deeper inside of her. Toma doubted any of it had come cheap though. It was some sort of statement that she didn't care to ponder over. Not when there was fresh fish in front of her. Not when there was thousands of credits on the line.