Dr. Irons walked down the streets, looking for an orange Lambda. It had been more than a few years since the doctor had been to City 17, and even though he knew Isaac's lab was safely hidden somewhere in a dark corner of the labyrinth that was this city, he had absolute clue where. So he scanned the walls with his light grey eyes, searching for the most common symbol of the Resistance. He himself had always told his troops that the Lambda meant safety.

The doctor suddenly tensed as he heard the whirl of a scanner approaching. Grimacing, he plopped his still burning cigarette into his mouth. If the scanner picked up any unusual activity, like cigarette smoke, (they were illegal among citizens, and CPs weren't allowed to smoke while on patrol) it would immediately process the information and send it to the nearest Civic Protection headquarters. Dispatchers on duty would receive the information and follow it to any patrols near the area. The whole process took barely minutes. Because even the faintest hint of any open flame could also trigger a scanner's curiosity, the doctor was force to hide the contraband in his mouth.

Lee's eyes watered as the roof of his mouth and tongue were burned before the saliva in his mouth put out the bud. He tried not to show any unusual activity, such as yelping, as the scanner passed lazily over his head. The scanner turned the corner and disappeared behind a building. Irons spat out the now wet and useless coffin-nail on the ground. He muttered several curses and lit another. He took a drag and blew the smoke from his nose as he spit out a few more flakes of tobacco.

God, that was awful.

Then why are you still smoking? If another scanner comes along or, God forbid, a CP patrol comes along, you'd have to do it again.

What are the odds of that happening? Why the hell would a CP unit patrol a street a scanner just passed through?

Maybe that scanner wasn't searching. Maybe it was leading.

The sound of an ordered progression of footsteps coming from behind him confirmed Irons' thoughts. He could hear the squawk of dispatcher on their radios. Irons had no time to ditch the cigarette. He knew what would happen even before he turned around, the tobacco between his lips burning ever brighter as the sun began to set.

"Hey, stop right there," the head CP barked, his voice robotic through the filters of his gray and white gasmask. He stepped forward and laid a hand on the grip of his baton. Irons blew more smoke through his nose and said nothing.

"You are in illegal possession of contraband. Come with us," he said as he came closer. Irons stood still.

Grunting, the head CP lost his patience and began to draw his baton from its holster. Irons turned his body in an arch as he lashed out with a kick. It connected with the CP's elbow, his arm stretched out in front of his body in order to draw his stun-stick. Irons heard the arm snap, broken at the elbow. Useless. The CP screamed, his voice becoming a horrible roar because of the gasmask. Irons ignored it; he had only seconds to complete move two.

His right hand, fingers folded down so the joints of his pointed forward, darted out and caught the CP in the neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the rest of the patrol begin to draw their firearms from the holsters on the right side of their hips. The doctor took a note of the position of the holsters, then grabbed and spun the now choking CP around and held him against his body. The rest of the Civic Protection patrol hesitated, unsure whether or not to fire upon their superior officer in order to dispatch a dangerous outbreak like Irons. Their hesitation was all the good doctor needed.

Keeping his cold eyes on the CPs, Irons drew his hostage's H&K USP Match pistol from his holster. The CPs saw this, but only one was quick enough to fire. His bullet tore into his officer's helmet as Irons emptied his clip into the patrol. Every shot buried itself into a CP throat, not one missing. Irons dropped the body and searched the patrol for more clips; he also took a couple of stun-batons as well. The cigarette in the corner of his mouth finally burned to the filter, and Irons flicked it at the corpse of the head CP. It flew gracefully into the bullet-hole of his helmet.

"Two points," he muttered to himself.