"No, apparently not." Dibbuk murmured, seemingly disappointed at having to answer at all. At this point it should be noted that Dibbuk was a Tar-Khal. A sentient reptile race native to Liberum, and somewhat massive in size.

About three times the size of a human, but pacifist in nature, the Tar-Khal looked somewhat like bipedal Komodo dragons. Dibbuk herself was a little small for a female Tar-Khal, only about 9 feet tall, and with blueish green skin that almost looked like scales. Even so, she was rather timid around humans, always believing she put them on edge.

She was right. Harvel didn't really like it, but she was right. As they came into work, he would often hear whispers of "Dino" or "Croc" as they passed. These being the general derogatory terms for the Tar-Khal in the city. As far as he was concerned, they all deserved a good working over.

For one, the Tar-Khal were vegetarian, and the only recorded "attacks" had been the result of over enthusiastic high fives. Second, they all kept to themselves for the most part. People barely ever even saw them around the more human parts of the city anymore.

Early on during the first settlement period, the Tar-Khal had found that it was easier to get along if they just did their own thing. They owned businesses, they built apartments, paid their taxes, and he could never really remember meeting one that he hadn't liked. Dibbuk, her little brother Yiddek, and he hadn't grown up in that part of town. They'd grown up in the Wharf.

"Oh, c'mon Bukky. Don't be too put out. You only got, what? Thirteen hours of sleep?" He said yawning.

"As opposed to what? Two at most like yourself?" She grumbled massaging some feeling back into her legs. Something caught her attention. Wicksomme had begun shuffling over with the look of a man who's poked a bear and was now wishing he was born without fingers.

"Uh, sorry Dibbuk. Didn't mean to sound overly critical." He said, apparently attempting to rub the back of his head hard enough to summon a genie.

"Oh, it's fine. I know you didn't mean anything by it." She said, shooting him a reassuring smile. He didn't seem very reassured.

Wicksomme was the newest member of the team and had only been with them for about a month. A young man of only 22, he was tall and lanky, with a personality akin to wet bread. Harvel had always equated him to an apologetic hat rack. He tended to stand in corners and stare at people.

This being his first pod week he was especially on edge. In the training academy they drill it into you that anything can happen in a pod week, and that you were to stay on your toes from the moment you arrived to the second you left. This wasn't entirely untrue, though most of the calls they were sent out on turned out to be body recovery only.

As ninety percent of all the teams had bio-monitors installed in their suits you knew ahead of time whether you were searching for warm or cold bodies. From experience in his training team Harvel knew that if the bugs got the upper hand they didn't take prisoners. When you got the call they either said medical or body, in reference to which bag you should bring. Harvel still always brought both, in case a monitor was faulty.

Getting a medical call was such a rare occurrence that the betting pool on the wall hadn't changed since early last year. They kept track with a board covered in tallies. Medical had about four in total, the body section ran off the board. Only twice in the two and a half years he'd been on team 5 had they needed to leave the pod for a medical emergency. They'd made it a point to always check Lindons backpack for cans of beans after the second one.

The word cunning wasn't a word you could use to describe Lombard Wicksomme. The word stupid didn't quite work either, because he'd seen Wicksomme do some very intelligent things in the time he'd spent with him. He just did smart things for stupid reasons when nobody was looking.

It was like the moment he thought nobody was watching he could relax, and his brain would resume after he'd had it on pause for hours at a time. Of course, this meant that this last pod week, and probably every pod week he participated in afterwards, his brain was practically frozen solid. This generally meant less than stimulating conversations and therefore compounded their boredom.

As Wicksomme stuttered and rubbed his sweaty hands, his apologies started to run together. Both Dibbuk and Harvel's eyes quickly developed a film of indifference. After a minute or two Wicksomme's voice ticked up as if he'd asked a question. Quickly regaining his comprehension Harvel considered answering without really listening but decided otherwise.

"Hmm? What was that bud?" He asked, rubbing his eyes back into focus.

"Oh, I was just wondering if we ever get out of here early? I've got a date back up top that I'd like a little time to get ready for." Wicksomme trailed off, becoming even more embarrassed at the mere idea of human interaction.

It was the seventh day of their stay down in pod 6, and while everyone was antsy to get out and back to the surface, they all knew there was no hope of an early escape. They had to wait for the next team to come down and relieve them of duty first, and unlike team 5, all the other teams tended to take their sweet time making the ride down.

"Sorry bud, 'prolly gonna be a while still. Team 6 is on their way down, but we got at least another 4 hours before we get back up to the fresh air." He explained, putting on a sad little smile. Harvel attempted to look apologetic as he shook his head and patted Wicksomme on the shoulder.

He'd have liked to have given the poor man some hope, but they'd never once gotten out early in the last two years. Harvel wasn't particularly broken up about this fact. He had plenty of his own reasons to stay down here as long as possible. Though the name Posthumous Lier was at the top of his list.

While Harvel was good at his job, he wasn't so good about things like books. Particularly in the area of doing things by them. Captain Posthumous Lier was about as flexible as a pane glass window, with bars on it. Harvel was just as high on his list as he was on Harvels.

Harvel dreaded every debrief he went through with the captain. It wasn't that he yelled, or screamed, or threw things at him. It was that he knew exactly what Harvel had done, and why he had done it. This made a little sense, as Lier had been one of the best scouts in department history, but he always knew, even if Harvel didn't.

There had been a time when Harvel had seen him a lot like an older version of himself. He was a dedicated and truthful man, with no patience for mistakes. Lier didn't seem to share this sentiment. He made that very clear nowadays. Usually in writing.

Dibbuk interrupted his thoughts, snapping her claws in front of his face. "C'mon space-cadet, we've got to start packing up. We've only really got an hour until we start for the surface. You can ruminate on what kind of emails you're going to get on the way." She said sliding on her oversized uniform overalls.

"You've got a point." Harvel grumbled, pulling on an identical, but much smaller pair of his own.

Strapping on their boots and getting their undercoats ready, they shifted around each other in unison like a well choreographed dance. They both packed their bags with an efficiency that would have made warehousing companies salivate. Within the hour they were both ready to exit the pod, their uniforms as clean as they had been when they had entered seven days prior.