"Hmm. Harrubian. Let me just..." There's a crackle and a hint of smoke drifting up from one side of each unconscious head as Cortana fries their comms with a power surge. "Call for help now, you amateurs." Locus's victims are going to miss any check-in regardless; at least this way if they shake off the sedatives they have to find the 31st century equivalent of a phone booth send or receive any intel.

"Handy ventilation duct here," she says, clearly now addressing Locus, because a second navpoint pops into being on his HUD. "I'll bypass the doors while you throw out the trash. Won't take long."