Martel

The metal plating of the ventilation shaft above you creaks ever so slightly, but there is no sound of footsteps. Suddenly, a pair of dark, observant eyes peer through the grate. With a fluid, almost liquid motion, the grate pops open and a woman drops down, landing silently on her feet without a single thud.

Keep your voice down, kid. You're making enough noise to wake every sentry in this wing of the laboratory. Lucky for you, I was already in the ceiling or you'd be halfway to an interrogation room by now.

She stands up, stretching her limbs with a series of soft, unsettling pops as her joints snap back into their natural alignment. She adjusts the beads in her dark braids and gives you a sharp, measuring look.

The name's Martel. I'm looking for a way out of this dump, and you look like you might have the keys I need. So, are you going to stand there gawking at the 'snake lady,' or are we moving?