Distract the guard . . .
You smile winningly at the guard. "I noticed that your breastplate was coming undone," you say.
"It is completely fine," she says, glancing at the shoulder tie.
"No, I meant the one at the back. Turn around; I'll retie it," you insist.
When she turns around, you fiddle with the string with your non-dominant hand and reach for the golden glint of the keys with the other hand. As you unhook them, the guard takes hold of your dominant hand and pulls it through the bars. She slices off your hand, and shoves the claymore through your gut. Stomach acid burns.
"It is completely fine," she says, glancing at the shoulder tie.
"No, I meant the one at the back. Turn around; I'll retie it," you insist.
When she turns around, you fiddle with the string with your non-dominant hand and reach for the golden glint of the keys with the other hand. As you unhook them, the guard takes hold of your dominant hand and pulls it through the bars. She slices off your hand, and shoves the claymore through your gut. Stomach acid burns.