Lang clears his throat noisily. "Shall we go, then?" He runs his hands through his closely shorn blond hair and they come away streaked with Blood. He scrapes what he can into an empty vial as Qui photographs the teleportation circle.
"Hands behind your back," Qui says, producing a pair of heavy-duty handcuffs from a pouch at his waist.
"I assure you, that won't be necessary, Sheriff," Lang says, quirking an eyebrow in what you'd almost mark as amusement.
"It wasn't a request."
"As you wish." Hands forced behind his back awkwardly, Lang marches ahead of Qui back into the sewers.
To The Surface
Somewhere in Ottawa, a building is burning. You can smell it in the air the moment you emerge from the manhole into a cramped concrete niche east of Capitol Hill beside the Rideau Canal. Someone under Qui's influence in the police force must have called ahead, because the area surrounding your exit is cordoned off, with officers blocking foot traffic and a cruiser waiting to pick up Lucca and her prisoner. Qui's nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply, eyeing the skyline.
"Five, six blocks away at most," he mutters, face grim.
"I warned you," Lang says as one of the mercenaries helps him into the back seat of the police car. "You see, Sheriff?" he says. "I only have your best interests at heart."