Dragan picked himself up off the ground, nursing his bruised arm. He glared at the holographic bull in front of him.

"You have an offer for me?" he asked. "I have to say, I'm not loving your opening pitch."

"I ask you to forgive them," the Sponsor of War said, voice a steady rumble. "Their line of work often requires violence, so it is the first solution they turn to. They are accustomed to hammers, so each problem becomes a nail. They had no malice towards you."

"Wish I could say the same," Dragan said. "So - what's this offer of yours?"

His mind was racing. What was going on here? Why was the Sponsor of War going to him with this? Had the other members of the crew been approached individually as well?

He didn't ask, though - best to hide curiosity unless it could be of use to you.

"You are a young man that I find agreeable," the bull began.

"How's that?"

"Our philosophies are compatible - you see the world and the people in it as they truly are. You are not swayed by pleasant platitudes or self-serving moralities."

As Dragan spoke, he began to circle the hologram, looking it up and down. As an artificial projection, it wouldn't actually have any body language he could use against it, but it was still a good idea for Dragan to give the impression that he was looking for tells.

"How's that?" he asked quietly, electric-blue eyes scanning. "I don't think we've talked much - and the one time we did, I'm pretty sure you were threatening me. Not exactly a heart-to-heart."

The bull flickered in place - and a second later, it was replaced by a hologram of Dragan as he'd been last night, speaking to Dir outside the hospital.

"There's no point," the holographic Dragan said, body language passionate. "There's no point to anything until you force there to be. Nobody in the world knows what they're doing, so you might as well do what you think is best. You have as good a chance of getting it right as anyone else! And I'm not letting some trillionaire voice from the sky tell me what to do - the only one who decides what happens to me is me!"

Dragan felt the twinge of a headache as he looked at the recording - both from the unexpected switch in analysis target, and the embarrassment of having his own words thrown in his face.

As the hologram switched back to the bull, Dragan smirked. "Does Dir know you've got him bugged?"

"Of course," the Sponsor of War chuckled. "He expects it. He is a dutiful man who believes in structures that do not exist. He obeys unwritten and unread rules without question."

Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't much sound like you appreciate the people who work for you."

"Dir does not work for me," the bull said. "He works for himself - to prove that the worldview he believes in is correct. Everything he does is for that purpose. I'm simply the one who gives him orders."

"Those are some fancy words, but he still works for you. You pay him, and he does what you say. It's pretty black and white, as far as I see it."

The Sponsor of War sighed, the flames around him intensifying in time with it. "I didn't bring you here to talk about Dir. I have a proposal for your future."

"And what's that?"

"That you have a future."

Dragan stopped his circling of the hologram, biting his lip. Had they finally reached the part of the meeting where the threats came out again? "You're going to have to expand on that for me," he said quietly.

"Imagine this scenario: in a very short span of time, something unfortunate will happen to the city, something that will cause a great deal of damage. Should you cooperate with me, you and your friends will be in a position where you can escape that situation. Should you not, your fate will be the same as those around you."

Dragan narrowed his eyes. "The Citizen's going to try something? Something big?"

"Big would be an understatement in this case."

"How so?" The conversation was accelerating, the gaps between statement and response getting shorter and shorter by the second.

The bull shook its head, charred fur flopping from side to side as it did so. "Not until I know we are of one mind. Before this incident takes place, I require someone to tie up loose ends. To ensure that - once this event takes place - the situation is thoroughly closed."

Dragan put a hand to his chin, ran the bull's statement back in his mind - using all the references in his Archive to search for any signs of duplicity. Nothing. The Sponsor of War had told the truth - but that didn't discount lies of omission.

He raised a hand, gestured towards the hologram. "And if I were to do this for you?" he said. "These loose ends - what are they? Let's get rid of the euphemisms."

The bull's red eyes were locked onto Dragan's as it spoke. "Atoy Muzazi. Other matters I have other people for, but I would like for you to kill that man. Should he still exist after the smoke clears, awkward questions will be asked."

That made sense. Presumably, the Taldan administration had managed to keep the UAP central government from catching wind of what was going on planetside - but if that changed, they'd probably want to know why an agent of an enemy nation was being held. More importantly, they'd want to know why they hadn't been informed of it.

That implied that whatever was about to happen would be big enough to catch their attention.

Something clicked in Dragan's mind. His breath faltered for a moment, and his eyes widened just a tad. To an ordinary person, these emotional indicators would be imperceptible, but Dragan knew that a Cogitant would be able to spot them plain as day. He could only hope the Sponsor of War wasn't a Cogitant, then.

Dragan tested the waters, keeping his tone carefully measured. "I'm some random stray from the Supremacy. I'm sure you have plenty of other people on your payroll - especially in that prison. Why not have one of them do it?"

"I am a man who enjoys the acquisition of resources, Mr. Hadrien. I could have one of my men do it and gain nothing, or I could have you do it and gain your services. It's a simple calculus."

Of course, that wasn't all there was to it. Dragan wasn't stupid - this would serve as a test of loyalty as well as a recruitment method. If Dragan proved himself unable or unwilling to do it, the Sponsor of War could just have someone else act - and get rid of him.

This wasn't even a choice, then.

"I do this for you," he said, looking up at the bull, voice firm. "And you let me and everyone else free. Completely off the hook. No future obligations."

"Absolutely," the Sponsor of War lied. "I am a man of my word."

Dragan closed his eyes. "I'll do it, then. I'll kill Atoy Muzazi."

The slightest sliver of satisfaction crawled through the bull's tone. "Excellent. I look forward to seeing your results, Mr. Hadrien."

And then there was the fizzling click of the hologram deactivating - followed by silence.

Dragan let out a shaking breath that felt like it had been boiling in his lungs for quite some time. He staggered backwards, putting an equally shaky hand against the wall to steady himself.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What had he just talked himself into? It felt like he'd gone from being in a cage to a labyrinth where he couldn't see any of the walls, and one wrong turn would mean certain doom.

If he wanted to get out of this, he knew, he'd have to burn his own way through the walls around him.

"Eight guys, huh?" said Skipper cheerfully, striding down the hallway with his hands clasped behind his back. "There were only six of you, last time. You're not scared of me or anything, right?"

The guards looked to each other, but didn't speak. To their credit, they weren't showing much in terms of nervousness - their grips on their plasma bows were steady, and their march down the hallway was locked into step.

Skipper had to give them top marks for that, if nothing else.

Still, he could take them out without much issue - maybe they'd realized that, seeing as they'd upped the guards on him. To a guy like him, though, smashing through eight meatbags wasn't much different from smashing through six.

The problem was the others. Ruth, Dragan, Bruno and Serena. So long as he didn't know where they were and what condition they were in, he couldn't act recklessly. The whole thing had turned into your classic hostage situation. The replacement prosthetic they'd gotten him was clearly thrown together on short notice, too - not suitable for battle by any means.

For the last couple of hours, this group of good old boys had been transferring him from cell to cell, room to room, presumably to keep him from having enough time to formulate a plan. Not bad, as far as tactics went.

This seemed to be different.

He recognized the hallways they were leading him down now - he'd made his way across them often enough back when he was dedicated to annoying Dir. They were headed to the security chief's office. Was Dir finally going to say what was going on, then? Or, more accurately, what he'd been told was going on?

They turned a corner - and just as Skipper had expected, there loomed the door to Dir's study. One of the guards - more nervous than the others, probably - jabbed Skipper's back with his plasma bow, prompting him to walk forward. Skipper cast a faux-irritated glance backwards.

"Patience, yeah?" he said, looking at the yellow dot in the center of the guards visor. "We've got all day here. No rush, buddy."

Well, he'd been in worse situations - but he'd been in better too. At the very least, he was confident he could get some answers out of Dir.

The door opened and Skipper stepped into the dark office. The guards did not follow.

Skipper frowned as the door slid shut behind him. The office really was dark - he could barely see his own hands when he looked down. How the hell did Dir expect to get any work done in this kind of environment?

With a dull thunk from above, the lights in the office snapped on. A witty comment died before it even left Skipper's throat.

The Fifth Dead stood towering over Dir's empty chair, hands clasped in front of him. His impassive eyes regarded Skipper, his face betraying no emotion. Dir himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Skipper," came a cold, measured voice from all around - not the Fifth Dead. "A pleasure to finally have you join us."

Dragan kept a hand on his mouth as he rode the train to the prison facility. He knew he couldn't afford to betray any emotion, but the pieces clicking together in his head weren't exactly easy to ignore.

He glanced around the train. The carriage seemed to be full of civilians - it was rush hour, after all - but he couldn't be sure there weren't any plainclothes security among them. So he couldn't afford to let anything show on his face - and running for it definitely wasn't an option.

Dragan idly flipped a coin up and down -- one of the last Supremacy staters he had on him. It wasn’t good as currency out here, of course, but he needed something to occupy his hands right now. Up it went, down it went. Nice and predictable. A thought occurred to him, and when the coin came back down again it vanished just before meeting his hand - dissipating in the tiniest spark of blue Aether.

Interesting. So falling objects counted as projectiles for the purposes of his Gemini Shotgun. That, at least, was good to know -- but not terribly relevant right now. He was losing his focus in pointless experimentation.

More than anything else, he needed time to think. How much time did he have? Until the train arrived at the station - and the short walk from the station to the prison facility. That wasn't long. He'd need to make use of every second he had.

Dragan gently closed his eyes, as if he was dozing off, and retreated into his Archive.

It had been quite a while since he'd made the full dive into this mental space - his life had been more than stimulating enough recently, after all. The marble halls of his Archive stretched on in every direction, shelves full of books and sculptures - and through the open windows, white mist could be seen swirling, obscuring whatever might have been outside.

With a thought, Dragan moved himself out of the hallways and to a central study. A huge table stretched out before him - and with a few glances, he stocked it with the relevant information. The conversation he'd had with the Sponsor of War, what he knew about the planet and it's government, every absurd situation he'd found himself in since he touched down here.

Running his eyes over it all, Dragan bit his lip. This was no good - there was just too much. It was all just noise, with nothing unifying it. He needed to organise this somehow, give structure to his theorycrafting.

He opened his mouth, just slightly, and sighed. After last time, he hadn't been looking forward to this, but he needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

Dragan tapped a finger against the mental table - and a second later, the younger Dragan was sitting opposite him, a smug smile crossing his lips.

"What's wrong?" he jeered. "Can't work this out by yourself? I thought you were meant to be smart."

Dragan gave his younger self a withering look. "I don't remember being this much of a pain in the ass at your age," he said.

The younger Dragan shrugged. "You probably weren't. I'm a representation of a whole bunch of mental processes, you know? You've got issues. Besides, you were kind of a dick at this age."

Well, he couldn't deny that. Every kid, deep down, was an asshole. "I need you to help me work something out," he snapped. "Something's about to happen here on Taldan - I need to know what it is, who's doing it, and why.*

His younger self raised an eyebrow. "You already got told that, though, right? The Citizen's planning something big. It's certainly in character for him, isn't it?"

"Don't fuck around. You know as well as I do that the Sponsor of War was lying there. He took what I said and just went with it."

Young Dragan rolled his eyes. "You've clearly got a high opinion of yourself."

"No snark, kid. You're only here for me to bounce ideas off of. That's the only reason you exist - and you don't exist, by the way, before you get any funny ideas."

The younger Dragan didn't have anything to say to that. He just sat there, arms crossed, glaring across the table.

He was wasting time. Dragan knew that, but he somehow hadn't been able to stop himself from getting into an argument with… well, with himself. He needed to get thinking now.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "The Sponsor of War knows that something big is about to happen, something that I wouldn't want to be around for. He's offered to get me and the crew out of here if I kill Muzazi for him. What're the catches?"

The younger Dragan counted them off his fingers as he went. "He could be lying about the event that's going to happen, he could be lying about getting you and the crew out of here, he could have told Muzazi the exact same thing and now you're walking into a trap..."

Dragan shook his head. "No."

The kid cocked his head. "No?"

"Muzazi would never take a deal like that. The other two are good points, though, uh… what do I call you?"

"Dragan Hadrien."

"I'm Dragan Hadrien."

The kid smirked. "I know you are, but what am I?"

Could it be considered homicide if you killed a part of your own psyche? Dragan was sorely tempted to find out. Luckily for the kid, though, he had other things to worry about for the time being.

Dragan waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, you're, uh, you're Dragon Hadrien. I'll call you that."

"Imaginative."

"Says my imagination. I think we should forget about your third idea, now that I think about it more - I'm not important enough for the Sponsor of War to come up with some convoluted scheme where I'm led to believe I'm executing Muzazi but he's actually executing me or whatever. So there's only two possibilities, as far as I see it."

"Do go on." The sarcasm practically dripped from Dragon's tone.

Dragan held up two fingers. "Let's assume this horrible event actually is going to happen. Either he's telling the truth about getting us out of here before then, or he's not. Motivations and all that are irrelevant."

"Well," Dragon slouched in his seat. "What do you think?"

Dragan sighed. "I think he's lying. People like him don't get to where they are via acts of charity. He's trying to trick me into doing work for free, then he'll use this event as a pretext to get rid of me before I become inconvenient myself."

A smug smirk spread across Dragon's lips. "Sounds like we're fucked."

More gears clicked together in Dragan's head, sounding like a tolling bell in his Archive. A smile of his own appeared on Dragan's face. "With that attitude, sure."

"What other attitude is there?" Dragon cocked his head, frowning.

Dragan leaned forwards across the table, looking his younger double right in the eyes.

People like the Sponsor of War won because they knew people. They could predict their actions easily, like tracking the falling of dominoes, because they understood their behaviours and motivations. It wasn't difficult for people like that to plan for the most likely choices their marks would make.

So the way to win was by doing something nobody would ever expect.

"I think," he grinned. "It's time for a jailbreak."