"What do you suppose is happening there?" Neil asked with feigned, aghast interest. He felt it was lucky that it was quite unlikely the arbites knew what he looked like. As usual they were making a mess of things, and as long as he made sure to remain cool and collected, he would get what he came for. Plus, once he escaped, he doubted they would look for him down below again. His hand, carefully placed against his breast in shock, placed a small amount of pressure on a button he had sequestered into the jacket. 

White flashes and gunfire-like clattering pops erupted in various places throughout the room, Neil having slipped a few stun-grenade cores in a multitude of places throughout the party, ranging from underneath food trays, atop busts, and in men's jackets. It looked like a rogue militant had burst into the room and opened fire with a submachine gun, and whilst some likely believed that had to be the case, others thought the arbites had opened fire in anger. The toughs themselves, as Neil predicted, did in fact open fire wildly a moment later, lasbolts striking men who looked their way funny, singeing exquisite paintings, and crashing into glass panes. An extremely fortunate lasbolt struck a mirror placed on the opposite wall of the arbites, and the projectile actually bounced off of it, to Neil's amazement. Neil had heard that was possible, but he had never seen that in all of his life. He owed Skit a few gelts, in fact. What's more, the lasbolt that pinged off the mirror redirected and slammed into the glass that covered the Edwardian Vigil, shattering it and sending the orb careening to the ground. 

Only instead, it fell in Neil's hand. 

He had thought Rasa Blanc would be too busy cowering like the rest, but instead she made herself a small target and kept her feet, and her eyes met Neil's just as he caught the gemstone. Neil gave her a subtle wink, and pocketed the artifact. He grinned when he saw her eyes widen in recognition of some sort. To his credit, he gave her a bow, aggrandizing his accent. "I would love to trade more puns with you, madam. But it seems I have overstayed my welcome, do have a lovely evening. Please tell the host I apologize, but an Edwards belongs with an Edwards." 

At that, Neil ducked and dove through the chaos of the crowd, sliding past rotund bellies and screaming damsels. It was a work of art, the way he dodged like he had foresight on when to swivel and when to slip. He had nearly made it to the edge of the room when an arbites stumbled into his way, likely accidentally, but saw Neil as a prime target once he was there. He had dropped his lasgun, wielding a stun baton like a cudgel. He raised the weapon up, igniting the weapon as he did so. Neil slid to the left, but the arbites' downward chop was redirected to his right, only for Neil to duck, slip past him, and kick his leg from behind. The armored man fell from his own weight, and Neil grabbed his arm, elbowed his wrist, and took his baton for himself, before striking the arbites on the head. 

He fell like a sack of potatoes, but not before a square-jawed sergeant cast his gaze Neil's way from across the room. Their eyes met, and Neil gave a lewd gesture before he turned and bolted down the door they had burst out of just a minute before, heading downstairs in a mad dash.