Elita, meanwhile, felt like either beating her processor in by going to bang the front of her helm against a wall, or start shooting the closest bunch of idiots. Of course, she'd do neither, for several reasons; it'd would blow her cover, she couldn't really (without some hacking, due to the Escort shell-programming) inflict violence on individuals technically ranked as "clients" even if they weren't paying her, and it would not get her out of here faster.

So she smiled at jokes Ratbat and his current little group were telling, and didn't move out of the way as a passing senator trailed a hand where it shouldn't be going, along a seam on her chestplates that would split apart to show the protected insides.

As if anyone here had the right to so much as see that.