She’s there when he stoops under the breeze and crosses into Snake Alley, shadows him as he rises to the second floor walkways spreading as metal tentacles over and through the mall. When he slips down to ground level she’s still there. He thinks he may have lost her when he slithers through the crowds staring raptly at snake oil demonstrations. Circles back, but there she is again. She’s quick through a crowd, as if she knows where he’s going before he does. A shimmering sight. True’s not even one hundred percent sure he’s being tailed, but his brush with Bong Bong has unnerved him. It’s possible she’s a razor assassin, concealing an array of weapons under her robe. True wants a closer look, but she’s covered head-to-sandals, wrapped in a saffron-colored robe. Even by zooming in with his wrist-top camera, True can’t key in on her face. No DNA identification, no weapons check, no way of determining her motives. His wrist-top, he notes ruefully, isn’t up to the task of saving his hide.
