“You got the plates?” pants Petra.

“Yeah,” says Terrell, “let’s WHOUF.” A big red shape bounces off his face, and he drops.

“A critical hit,” booms a voice. “For the Dieslinger!”

“You’re kidding,” groans Petra.

“Hands up, criminal–”

“God. Look.” Petra peels off her ski mask. “I’m an image consultant, okay? And seriously, this Dungeons and whatever…”

“You recognized it!”

“But think of the zeitgeist! You want recognition with dice, you go with gambling.” She puts an arm around his shoulder.

“Oooh,” he says. “So I could yell, like, ‘Snake Eyes, scum!'”

“You got it,” laughs Petra, and guts him.