Dragan strode out onto the roof, wiping a stray bead of sweat from his forehead as he passed through the doors. His script was stuffed firmly in his pocket.

"You're being dumb as hell!" Ruth was still giving Skipper -- who was perched on the railing like a bird -- a piece of her mind. Bruno stood a small distance away, leaning over that same railing as he looked out onto the cityscape. Artificial sunlight beat down: it was clearly meant to be a warm day today.

"Finally wake yourself up, Mr. Hadrien?" Skipper called out as Dragan approached, without so much as turning to look at him. "Didn't think you'd ever come to."

"Some of us like having downtime," Dragan grumbled, cracking his neck as he stood alongside the group. "We can't all be adrenaline freaks like you."

"So harsh, so harsh," Skipper chuckled. "But maybe you're right. I've tried staying still -- it ain't for me."

Ruth's foot, suddenly clad in a Skeletal boot, came down hard on the roof. The resounding thump was more than enough to overpower whatever words were about to come out of Skipper's mouth next.

"Skipper," she said slowly, voice full of menace. "I'm starting to feel like you're ignoring me."

"No, ma'am!" Skipper shook his head furiously, hopping around on the railing so that he was facing the group instead. "I'm hearing you loud and clear. Promise I'll never get in danger again, or do anything reckless. One-hundred percent."

One hand was behind Skipper's back, and Dragan was willing to bet billions that two of the man's fingers were crossed. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite suppress the smirk on his face at the obvious lie.

Skipper's grin spread slightly wider as he saw Dragan's expression. "Hey," he said quietly. "Look. I got him."

"Apparently," Bruno called out. "This all ends tomorrow. What do you guys think about that?"

The roof fell silent. Skipper's cheeky grin slackened away, Ruth took a deep breath, and the smirk on Dragan's face died. This wasn't over yet, was it? No, it wasn't over at all.

"Abraham Oliphant arrives tomorrow," Dragan confirmed, slowly nodding. "I got that info out of Fix. Doesn't take a genius to work out that Carla is gonna go after him when he gets here."

Ruth crossed her arms, idly tapping her foot against the concrete beneath. "About that… I've been thinking, guys…"

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"This… kinda isn't any of our business, is it? Why don't we just leave?"

Bruno squeezed the railing bar tight, his face resolute as he stared forward. "I'm not leaving," he muttered. "Not now. Not until I settle things with Cott. It's the only way me and Serena will be safe."

Dragan couldn't do much to argue with that.

Skipper, still perched, rubbed his chin. "Well," he said slowly. "I've still got my heart set on the Oliphants owing me a favour, and I'm struggling to see a better way to do it than helping them out here."

"They've taken a beating," Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Are they still worth having on your side?"

"Financial resources," Skipper counted on his fingers. "Secret supply routes, bribed officials… they still have those to give, yeah?"

So those were some of the things needed for Skipper's endgame. Good to know.

Grimacing at the stark refusal, Ruth looked to Dragan. "Little help?" she asked, rightfully looking towards the voice of reason.

Dragan slowly nodded. "Objectively, there's no good reason for us to stick around here…"

Ruth smiled.

"But…"

Ruth stopped smiling.

That image still came to the front of his mind. Carla Oliphant, running through the niece that had believed in her. Stabbing her again and again. Betraying her again and again.

Familial hands around his throat. Warm blood falling on his face. Fix, in the open doorway, panting in shock as he pointed his gun.

The only one who decides what happens to me is me. But…

"There are some people in the world who just need their ass kicked," Dragan declared. "Carla Oliphant's one of them. I'm not leaving either."

Ruth's face somehow fell even further. "So that's it?" she mumbled. "We're just sticking around, waiting for things to go to shit again? Without even having a plan?"

She had a point. For the last few months, they'd done little but drift from place to place, somehow managing to get themselves into affairs that had little to do with them and doing an especially lousy job at getting out of those affairs. So far, this incident was just another in the pile.

That didn't mean they'd act any differently, though. The sadness on Bruno's face, and the rage in his own heart, wouldn't allow Dragan to. Sentiment had infected him long ago.

"Well," Skipper grinned. "It just so happens that yours truly --"

Dragan interrupted. "I have a plan."

He held up his script.

One Day Later…

This is how Abraham Oliphant starts his day.

With the enhancements he's invested in, waking up is a matter of a function switching from 0 to 1. There is no slow return to consciousness: just instant awareness, like the lights turning on. Any thoughts interrupted by his hibernation the previous night seamlessly resume. Thoughts of how to punish his wayward daughter, and how to repair the damage that has been done to his name.

When he wakes, he is blind -- his eyes are removed each night for maintenance and cleaning. For the most part, he is just as deaf: while he sleeps, his head rests in a pod of proprietary chemicals, slowing the effects of decay and ensuring the all-important biological hardware remains compatible with its mechanical body. Sound does not travel well through the thick amniotic porridge that is Abraham Oliphant's nocturnal abode.

Machinery whirrs. The liquid begins to drain away, and Abraham Oliphant drinks in sweet oxygen through the massive artificial lungs attached to this unit. The egg-shaped container is pulled in half by thin robotic limbs from the floor and ceiling, exposing the unnaturally smooth cranium of Abraham Oliphant to the light.

Abraham's attendant, a nervous-looking Scurrant with long tufts of hair hanging out of his mouth, shuffles over, sliding Abraham's eyes into his sockets with practiced precision. Lights blink on in each cybernetic pupil as they connect to the optic nerve. Eyelids blink -- a movement that is mere instinct rather than a necessity at this point.

This is where the human element comes into play. If not for the explosive chip embedded in the base of the Scurrant's skull, there would be a distinct possibility of betrayal -- Abraham Oliphant is never more vulnerable than now.

The same mechanical arm that separated the roof of the pod comes down again, carefully seizing Abraham by the base of his skull and lifting him across the room, towards his body. The Scurrant watches, his hands fidgeting nervously -- if anything should go wrong here, it is his job to correct it. He has been awake for hours already, after all, triple-checking every aspect of the body and this process for signs of tampering.

Abraham Oliphant's body is upgraded frequently, as more technology becomes available to him, becoming larger to house it all. At this point, seventy years into his life and fifty-two years into the formation of his syndicate, it is a veritable goliath. It is an ugly thing, truth be told, designed for function rather than form -- dull grey and mostly cylindrical, with countless vents to belch forth excess heat. The hands and fingers are segmented to an absurd degree, able to reconfigure themselves into a variety of weapons and implements with a thought.

This is a body made for war.

The machine screws on Abraham's head like it is fixing in a screw, and the moment the nervous system connects he lets out a deep, psychosomatic breath. His body whirrs and clicks as he tests every function, taking only seconds before he is satisfied. He opens his mouth and, when he speaks, his voice is tempered by the electronic undercurrent of a machine.

"How long until we arrive?" There is no gratitude, no acknowledgement of the Scurrant's labour. Abraham Oliphant is above such things.

His voice is slurred somewhat from the hair that grows in his mouth, but the Scurrant answers obediently. "Mere minutes, sir," he sniffs, bowing so low his head almost hits the floor. "I-I did my utmost to optimize our route as much as possible, but there's only so much that can… be, um…"

Abraham ignores the useless remainder of his statement, stepping past his attendant and towards the exit ramp of the ship. He has been thinking deeply about what must happen now that he has been disrespected in this manner. Many of his employees have betrayed him, his own flesh and blood have been disgraced, and his oldest daughter has defied him in the most impertinent way imaginable.

Yes, he has thought deeply about this.

It will end with crucifixions.

"Nervous?" Deceit asked.

He looked slyly over at Carla on the other end of the darkened car. In the little light available, the slight smirk on his face bore more resemblance to a crazed grin. The other Cott aspect, sitting next to him, remained silent.

"How could I not be?" Carla replied, hands steepled on her lap. "This is the culmination of my entire life. I think I'd be kind of a freak if I wasn't worried about all of this."

This was the last stretch. Even now, heading towards the hangar they'd confirmed Abraham was arriving at, Carla couldn't help but fret. Had her preparations been sufficient? Would del Sed or Masadora betray her? Was there anything she hadn't taken into account here?

Deceit kept talking. "There's no need to be concerned. Eli Masadora is waiting in the wings to play his role, and my other aspects already have the place surrounded. I'm sure the rest of your family will try to interfere somehow, but to be honest? The amount they can do is limited. If they show up, we just kill them too."

Carla glared. "You seemed just as confident of that at the Silver Vision tower -- and yet they're not dead."

For a moment, Deceit had no reply to that -- and the aspect sitting next to him just twitched and growled, it's porcelain eyes crazed. With its ginger hair hanging in clumps over its face, it seemed like some kind of wild beast.

"That was a fluke," Deceit finally answered, far too firmly. "I'll admit I underestimated the individual abilities of the people there, but I'm not the sort to make the same mistake twice. You'll get your money's worth -- I promise you that."

"I think I might be more assured of that if I was speaking to Cott directly -- not the literal personification of his ability to bullshit."

Deceit smiled thinly. "I understand your concerns, but you don't send a general into the battlefield directly. That'll create more issues than it solves. I'm sure you understand that, too."

"As I'm the one paying you, and I'm the one in charge, I would think I'm the general here, honey. You have other ideas?"

"You're expecting betrayal. That saddens me."

Carla shook her head. "Of course not -- I'm anticipating it. Your name's Deceit. I'd be remiss if I wasn't."

The car stopped, and for a few seconds Carla and Deceit just kept staring into each other's eyes. What thoughts resided there, Carla wondered, behind those glassy false pupils? Was a knife indeed coming for her back, or had paranoia begun to strangle her in the eleventh hour?

Finally, though, she spoke.

"We're here," she said.

Dragan, crouched on the edge of a roof, glared down at the figure who'd be his first target.

"I'm here," he whispered into his communicator.

Ruth kept her claws ready as she walked alongside Roy Oliphant-Dawkins, the bandaged man striding as if he was in the best of health. His son Scout walked just behind them, with Rico's mother Valentina bringing up the rear. The tension was palpable in the air, like a curtain coming down and smothering them.

The ship they were waiting for, a discreet cuboid thing of black metal and white-hot thrusters, slowly landed in the center of the room. As the glow of the thrusters died, the exit ramp began to descend.

"We're here," Ruth growled.

"Don't get careless, yeah?" Skipper muttered to Bruno.

The two of them were standing just outside the hangar, guarding the main doors that led to where the ship was coming in. A few other Oliphant employees were with them -- a guy who seemed to be Roy's personal aide along with a few suited goons -- but that didn't do much to make things less tense.

If the enemy attacked using this route, things would quickly become a bloodbath. Not just for them, but for the countless civilians that were in the docking center as well. Shields already hovered over Bruno's hands as he watched the passing crowds carefully.

He wouldn't let Cott hurt anyone else. Not the way he'd hurt him and Serena. That was unacceptable.

"Yeah?" Skipper repeated, clearly wanting a response. He didn't get one.

Slowly, Bruno reached for the communicator clipped to his collar. He took in a deep breath.

"We're…" Bruno began.

"...here," Serena finished.

"We're here," the Scurrant whispered, peering up at his master.

The exit gate slid open.