[ When El’s message pings the implants, Fitz already has a job in progress — with an invite waiting at the end of it. Those involved with the underground may hear of a brewing prank war between their cleverest crews, the 66 versus the Hi-Jacks, escalating rapidly to win places at the Insomniacs’ Ball for all involved. For Fitz’s part, he takes the day off work to help hotwire 66-er hoverbikes and go for a quick spin, right under their noses. Back in no time, only gone long enough to prove they could bypass failsafes and jack them in the first place. ]

[ At the ball, with his invite tucked safely within a concealed pocket and hand stamped with the welcome code, Fitz dresses more like the version of himself who works with the Hi-Jacks (seen at the fighting rings, working the bot fights and, occasionally, spotted doing mechanic work at the hover-races) than the perpetually business casual scientist and fumbling intelligence agent known to others, pushed further by Bobbi's assistance and a Hi-Jacks mandate to stay on brand. A short-sleeve crew neck, loose-fitting, black like his light jacket. The remnants of his typical style remain in the collar, upright and emanating a red glow. While the top of the jacket appears structured, netted paneling cuts in after the shoulders, over his arms and down his back — designed precisely to breathe in New Amsterdam’s sweltering summer — with the solid fabric only returning at the waist, a stripe to cut at a sharp angle. Dark trousers and shoes help him blend, otherwise. He isn't looking forward to trawling the floor for anomalies, if his set jaw and forcibly neutral features are indicative of anything. ]

A. SAVE ME.
[ As it happens, there are shocks of luminous red throughout the crowd, brilliant decals pinned to tops and skirts bathing the floor in light. Perhaps it’s a signifier of the Hi-Jacks affiliation that landed him an invite. The cardinal markers cross over occasionally, clustered at the bar, or colliding in the crowd — a hand drags across his collarbone, leaving a trail of bright cherry behind, before fingers hook through his mesh sleeve in an attempt to pull him toward a larger group. ]

I, uh. [ His mouth opens and closes. Busy recalibrating, he lets himself be tugged along. Oh no. ] Well, I’m —

B. I’M HERE TO RESCUE YOU.
— I’m looking for someone. [ called over the thudding bass, as he jerks back, not smooth in the slightest. Any flush is obscured, backlit with red as he is. That wins a chorus of “oohs” from his companions. A known entity quips, You’re always looking for someone, Leo. Take a break already. Yeah, maybe when he’s dead in two hours. Christ, this event is designed to give him a heart attack.

The live nature of the operation means he goes onward, however. While Fitz only drinks from his own flask, the silver metal glinting in the erratic light, he’ll buy for anyone who looks as if they’re willing to talk, is ballsy enough to ask him, or who appears new, dressed in the tell-tale hospital attire that means he makes one, obedience-bolstered request. ]

Give me a minute of your time. [ hands up in surrender, eyes bright in earnest. ] Just one minute to explain. That’s all I ask. Promise.

[ A command surely as frightening as any other, yet time-locked, the escape in sight. ]

C. TAG TEAM.
[ Familiar faces, too, warrant his attention. Fitz slides beside any at the bar or catches an elbow on his way through the dancefloor with a lilt of their name. Maybe it's a save from a proposition or being plied with some substance or other, Fitz's hands gently steering on a friend's shoulder. Regardless of how they catch each other, he can ensure they stay safe together. And there’s something to be said for wandering this heaving affair with a partner. ]

Tell me you’re here for business. [ Please. ]

[ He hates this place, thanks. ]