Meta wondered idly what he could have possibly done to deserve this level of cosmic retribution. He then realized he could probably make an alphabetized list of his misdeeds and began wallowing in self-pity with decidedly less self-reflection.

"You know, this entire situation is going to taint my enjoyment of bondage," Dark whined. He'd been securely restrained in a wheelchair for ease of transport, as his broken rib precluded him from walking easily. The chair was old and stained with some mysterious biohazard, having been dug out from an old storage room in Meta's base.

"I am certain that you will find some other form of depravity to entertain yourself with," Meta snapped, gesturing angrily with his pen. He returned to the mound of paperwork on his desk, which he considered to only be slightly more aggravating than his current captive.

"Oh definitely, watching you fill out those forms has me all hot and bothered. Notarize me daddy!" Dark shrieked, cackling loudly at Meta's affronted look. He then winced and went silent from the resulting pain in his chest. Their fight had severely degraded whatever Dark had used to conceal his scar.

The scar was a dull pinkish tone that still managed to stand out against Dark's unnaturally white skin. In fact, now that he was without makeup Meta realized Dark's skin was truly monochromatic, with slate-colored lips and gray bags beneath his eyes. His usually tousled and styled hair was beginning to protest against whatever products he had used, the ends fluffing out and curling up in a manner similar to Meta's own. Dark seemed far more like a real person in this disheveled state.

"You really are going to do paperwork the whole time, aren't you?" Dark sighed. Meta halted his silent visual appraisal, and narrowed his eyes.

"That is entirely dependent on the time needed to return you to the Mirror World. I have many other tasks to accomplish as well, and I refuse to allow your presence to preclude me from doing so," he said. Truthfully, he ached to return to several of his projects in his workshop, but he loathed the thought of pushing his charge around the base. He hated the thought of being unable to directly supervise him even more, which took the option of dumping Dark on a crew member off the table.

"What are you, some kind of glorified murderous accountant? Live a little!" Dark chided.

"The more exciting aspects of my lifestyle are supported by such monotonous endeavors," Meta responded. Truthfully, he shirked paperwork as often as possible, either by passing it off on a crew member or "losing" it and daring clients to challenge him. Dubiously legal weapons contracting was far from a by-the-book operation, even without Meta's own enormous arsenal and penchant for destruction. But they'd open an ice-rink on Hotbeat before Meta would admit that to Dark.

"I have no clue how you can manage to sound so boring while also being able to murder a man with your bare hands. It's incredible. Every time you open your mouth it's like an event horizon of sexual appeal. All this shit going for you just vanishes into the ether of your droning babble," Dark drawled.

"The only time you have ever brought any sort of enjoyment by opening your mouth has been on your knees," Meta snapped back. Dark's eye widened, his eyebrows rising in a comical expression of shock and slight offense. Meta noticed the silence and sheepishly returned to his writing.

"That was brutal. Nice," Dark quipped, forcing a painful-looking fake smile. Meta frowned, letting his pen go still. Did his remark actually... hurt Dark's feelings? He quickly dismissed the thought, shaking his head.

"You truly aren't going to let me work in peace, are you?" he hissed, pressing his pen harshly against the paper and watching a gleaming mound of ink form.

"I have literally nothing else to do. So yes," Dark responded, shrugging as much as he could with his restraints. Meta let out a long sigh and massaged his temples. Dark noticed the gesture and gave a cat-like smile. "How about a tour of the facilities? I'd love to take a look at your equipment."

"I will show you the aircraft hangar if you will agree to remain silent afterwards. And no, I will not justify your little double entendre with a response," Meta huffed, resting his head on his hand. Dark perked up at the prospect of entertainment. And he would be lying if he said the prospect of seeing just what sort of aircraft his counterpart built didn't excite him.

"Deal," he chirped.

It was exceedingly difficult to leave Dark in awe. He lived a life surrounded by the most lavish things his incredible fortune could buy, but this was impressive compared to even his most opulent buildings. The hangar stretched to the very edge of Dark's field of vision, and it was filled with a breathtaking array of air and spacecraft, with a few boats thrown in for good measure. As his reluctant guide wheeled him closer, he noticed that nearly all of the machines were bristling with various weaponry.

"I thought you meant like, one or two fighter jets. This is..." Dark trailed off into a rare loss for words. Meta puffed up with pride somewhat at seeing his rival's awestruck reaction.

"An impressive catalogue is a must for any respectable business," he said, letting smugness seep into his words. Though the Halberd was his crown jewel, he was proud of every single one of the ships he constructed.

"Business? You're a weapons dealer?" Dark squawked, incredulous. He'd pegged Meta as a stuffy, by the books type, but he was proving to be far more of the roguish type.

"I prefer the term military contractor. These facilities are not free to build and maintain and staying on the cutting edge requires a steady flow of generous funds," Meta responded, guiding them towards a row of smaller jets.

"Contractor or not, these are definitely not regulation. And that's by Mirror-World standards. It's probably like double illegal here," Dark observed. He was startled by a barking laugh from Meta.

"Heh, regulations. By far the best joke you have told today," he snickered. Meta seemed far more relaxed and fluid in his movements, like he was discarding a façade. He swept out an arm to present the machine before them. It was both sleek and excessively lethal in appearance, with a long thin body and swept-back wings with upturned tips.

"This is the Cutlass III. A fighter jet capable of supersonic speeds and capable of carrying up to thirty radar-guided missiles in addition to its four plasma guns. Due to the small cold-fusion reactor powering it, it will only need refueling after a year of flight-time," Meta said, pride evident in his tone. For once, Dark would have to admit that the pride was warranted. It was a seriously incredible piece of engineering.

"I know that I tend towards sarcasm, but I will say with complete sincerity that that is the sexiest piece of machinery I have ever seen. Can you paint it black?" Dark asked.

"I do not talk business with hostages, nor do I sell cutting-edge weapons to my enemies," Meta scoffed, crossing his arms.

"Damn shame. Where's the Cutlass I and II?" Meta stiffened and conspicuously glanced away.

"They... did not quite hold up under testing..."

"And by that you mean...?"

"The Cutlass I's weapons system proved unstable and eventually targeted itself, resulting in a rather catastrophic disassembly. We lost control of the Cutlass II during remote testing in the upper atmosphere," Meta admitted, slightly irritated at the memories.

"Nice. Did you ever get the second one back?" Dark chuckled.

"No, and since it was fully fueled it should still be rocketing through the atmosphere for approximately three more months."

"Where's it going to land?"

"Hopefully nowhere populated," Meta sighed.

"It'll probably hit an orphanage or something. Push me closer, I want a better look," Dark quipped.

"Thank you for your optimistic input," Meta sighed, obliging despite his irritation. Dark watched his slightly murky reflection ripple over the metal surface of the jet, and a touch of homesickness clawed its way into his heart. He quietly allowed some of his magic to flow out, causing his reflection to ripple and change. Meta stayed back a short distance. He'd allow Dark to contact his side, but he would have to do it under careful supervision. As the new reflection became clearer, Meta caught a glimpse of red hair just before Dark suddenly shrieked in rage.

"What the fuck are you doing in my- ah, fuck!" Dark slumped back down, pain blossoming through his chest. Meta focused his gaze on the reflected figure and almost recoiled.

"Susie," he snarled, slipping a hand into his cape and around Galaxia's hilt. The woman looked at him with a red-lined grin, folding her hands behind her back.

"I prefer the name Parallel," she said.