Almost experimentally, he crossed into the living room and depolarized the tanglethreads. They slipped to the floor like overcooked pasta.
For good measure, he pulled a lightstick from his pocket and struck it; light flared in the gutted room. Desjardins blinked over shrinking pupils and gingerly explored the bruise on his cheek.
"They already know, big man. They were the ones who patched me through in the first place. I gave them the rest of the night off."
"Sort of a chaser for Guilt Trip. Makes things easier to live with."
"Absolution," she whispered.