Muzazi's eyes scanned through the press release on his script, his mouth a thin line of displeasure.

Dragan Hadrien, a defector? How had that occurred? It wasn't that he doubted the press release, exactly - the Supremacy personnel who had written it had no doubt worked hard - but the concept itself didn't seem to make sense to him. If the kidnapping had actually been the preplanned extraction of a spy, why had Dragan struggled so?

He'd had the will to survive - Muzazi had seen that. It wasn't something that could be faked.

There were three kinds of people in the world, as far as Muzazi saw it - those who didn't want anything, those who wanted to survive, and those who wanted to win. The natural course of a life was to progress from apathy to survival to victory. Those who wanted to succeed succeeded. Those who yet didn't were stepping stones until they were able to wake up and start the climb themselves.

Those who wanted to survive would fight for it. Muzazi had seen that desperate struggle before - he couldn't recall where - and so he was able to recognise it at a glance. True and honest fighting for one's continued existence.

And yet … the Supremacy had revealed that Hadrien was a spy. Recruited by the UAP and tasked with infiltrating the AdminCorps. So Muzazi must have been mistaken. He knew that he wasn't the smartest - he'd been told that more than enough times - so that was more than possible.

And yet he was so sure. And yet he shouldn't be.

"Officer Muzazi?" said Prescott politely, hands clasped behind his back. The light-haired man smiled genially as Muzazi turned to look at him. "Shall we go in?"

The two of them stood outside the Neon 99, a club operated by this Hyena character. Prescott had done an investigation into the Hyena's operation in the past, so he'd been able to provide Muzazi with the location. He'd debated bringing an entire squad of soldiers with him, but had decided against it - he wanted information more than anything else at the moment.

"Right," said Muzazi, nodding, pulling himself back into the present. "Yes, of course. Forgive me - I was lost in thought."

"Of course," said Prescott - and with that, he strode through the entrance, Muzazi following after him.

The club was empty - maybe they didn't get much business at this time in the afternoon. Music still blared from half-a-dozen speakers, though, each high note making Muzazi wince involuntarily. Strobing patterns ran across the walls and floor, huge designs of extravagant cars and scantily clad women. It was as if the building itself was dedicated to the ideal of sensory overload.

Prescott seemed to know where he was going, walking through the venue with purpose, so Muzazi simply followed after him. They passed through the empty entrance into a bigger chamber, a circular room designed around a silver statue of a peculiar-looking wolf in the centre. It's face was locked into a furious snarl as lights danced around its body.

"Grotesque," muttered Muzazi.

"You think so?"

Muzazi looked up. The speaker, sprawled over a couch in a corner of the room, was a man that Muzazi recognised from his photograph: the Hyena.

His pitch-black eyes regarded Muzazi, the bright-green pupils at their centres lazily drifting over his face.

"You don't like my statue?" the Hyena continued. "Don't care for it? It doesn't catch your fancy?"

His voice had that peculiar quality unique to Umbrants, as though two people were speaking just slightly out of sync with each other. Umbrants could change their voices, of course, but this was what they always defaulted to.

Muzazi looked the statue over again. If he was going to properly discuss it, he needed to fully take it in.

He cupped his hand with a chin. "It seems off-model, for a wolf. The proportions are incorrect."

"A wolf?" the Hyena snickered, a harsh sound like cracking wood. "That's a Hyena, friend. Home beastie. Never seen one before? Never laid your eyes upon one of these boys?"

"I never have," said Muzazi truthfully. "If that's the case, I can't comment on its quality. Forgive me."

The Hyena gave him a strange look. Prescott spoke up from his position behind Muzazi: "This is Special Officer Atoy Muzazi, sir. He's investigating the Dragan Hadrien situation."

Muzazi nodded. Prescott had done right to speak up, and his manners had been impeccable. Even when speaking to a criminal, one should be respectful.

"Situation, eh?" the Hyena purred. "That's a good word for it. Bland boy kind of word. I like it, I like it."

"Early this morning," interrupted Muzazi, raising his voice. "Security forces were called to a hangar on the outskirts of Breck Kor. When they arrived, they found signs of armed conflict between your employees and the group that kidnapped Dragan Hadrien. The corpse of a Pugnant that worked for you was recovered from the scene, along with the leader of the kidnappers. I want to know what your men were doing there."

The Hyena raised his eyebrows. "My employees, associates, compatriots? What makes you think these tragic gentlemen worked for me? I am a businessman, Mr. Muzazi. An entrepreneur. I mean no disrespect to my employees - they are loved, adored - but I have great trouble, great difficulty seeing them fighting anything worse than a pile of paperwork. They are office boys, you see."

So the man was intent on playing dumb. Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "It's common knowledge that this Guimo character worked for you."

"Common knowledge? Gossip of the common folk? Show me on my employee database where this Mr. Guimo is described, if you please."

Muzazi nodded. That was simple enough. "Prescott," he said, turning to his companion. "He would like to see where Guimo is described on his employee database."

Prescott glanced away uncomfortably, finger tapping the screen of his script. "He, ah, isn't, sir. Unfortunately."

Damn. It was very fortunate for the Hyena that that was the case, or else the situation would have been embarrassing for him.

"If there's nothing else, friend," said the Hyena, leaning forward, a nasty grin on his face. "Could you please leave my place of business, my abode of commerce? Customers usually start arriving around this time."

Prescott smiled sympathetically. "We'll just have to do a little more outside investigation, sir. Sometimes it turns out that -"

Muzazi stepped forward and - in less than a second - was upon the Hyena, holding him up by the collar, Luminescence's sharp edge resting delicately against his stomach. The man choked out a protest, green pupils dilated to tiny dots of terror.

Moving quickly was easy for Atoy Muzazi. Aether enhancement on its own did a fine job of boosting an individual's speed, but his own unique application of it helped out even more.

Over many months of training, Muzazi had developed the ability to focus his Aether into a single point and blast it out as a propulsive force, much like the thrusters of a spaceship. So long as he knew the direction he was going and there was nothing in the way, he could be devastatingly fast.

Plus, there were other tricks he could pull off - but it seemed they weren't needed today.

"Mr. Muzazi!" cried out Prescott.

"Please contact security, Prescott," replied Muzazi. "I'm going to require a prisoner transport."

His hand flew out in a blur of movement, thumping the Hyena in the head mid-snarl. The crime lord’s head lolled to the side, tongue sticking out, his expression now the very picture of unconsciousness.

Muzazi dropped the man to the floor. Simple solutions were always the best.

-

Lord Mayor Rikhail ran a nervous hand through his hair as the report came in. If it wasn't coming from his own flesh and blood, he would hardly have believed it.

The Hyena was the reason he'd been able to rise to his current position, the one who had kept the daggers out of his back. He owed the man many debts many times over, and there was no way he would be allowed to forget it. Hell, the Hyena owned him.

And this Special Officer sent by the Minister had assaulted him in his own establishment, disgraced him, brought him in. An unforgivable insult - and one that would be attributed to Rikhail.

He groaned at his desk, face in his hands. His office, looking out over the great city of Breck Kor, was probably the most expensive room on the planet, but right now it felt like a dingy prison cell.

What could he do? Apologize?

No, the Hyena did not forgive. Normally, Rikhail could just offer the offending personnel up on a platter, but arranging the execution of a Special Officer was something far beyond his capabilities.

Could he … could he perhaps have the Hyena killed? Arrange for an officer to strangle him in his sleep, or for a malfunction of the interrogation equipment?

No, no, no. Rikhail had no doubts that the Hyena had a system set up to ruin him should the crime lord mysteriously pass away.

He was done, then, either way. Either the Hyena would reveal what he knew of Rikhail's crimes, and the Supremacy would kill him, or he'd stay quiet to do the deed himself later.

Damn it. Damn it.

He slammed a fist down into his desk, the heavy sound of the impact echoing throughout the room. It seemed hopeless, he knew, but he couldn't give up. He wasn't dead until the moment he stopped thinking.

A Lord Mayor could certainly be brought down by the testimony of a crime lord, but what about a Minister? Goley had managed to suppress information regarding Hadrien's kidnapping for a good amount of time. It would be no difficulty for him to suppress leaks from someone like the Hyena.

If he could just … if he could just take that position, he could live. He could prosper.

First, he needed to take the prerequisite steps.

He tapped a button on his script, and a holographic voice display flickered into existence over his desk. With the flick of a finger, he set it to contact the tower's prison wing.

"Sir?" came the tinny voice of the prison master.

"The dissident," Rikhail growled. "The one Atoy Muzazi brought in. Bring him to me."

-

Ruth furrowed her brow once again as she looked at the news article. This whole idea of Hadrien being a defector didn't make any sense at all. Anyone who'd seen her kicking him around the room could attest to that.

Someone had an angle with this, obviously, but she couldn't figure out who they were or what the angle was.

She glanced over the table to Hadrien, who was sat there scrolling away on a bulky, last-gen script he'd managed to pickpocket. He was going through all the information on his arrest warrant, probably asking himself the same questions she was.

They were sat in an abandoned apartment in one of the more run-down areas of the district, a tiny wood-rotted abode consisting of a kitchen and a bedroom, which could only be considered separate rooms if you were very generous and very desperate.

"You sure you want to do this?" she said after a moment, interrupting the silence.

He glanced up at her. "Do what?"

"Work together on this. I don't know if you remember, but I kinda beat the shit out of you a day or two ago."

Hadrien scowled. "Oh, no, sorry, I forgot."

"Really?"

"No!" he snapped. "Not really!"

"So you don't want to work together, then?"

Hadrien put down the script and looked at her. "Listen," he said. "For some reason, every person on this planet who appreciates the value of money wants to see me shot. You and your buddies are the only people I know of who won't turn me in - mostly because you'll get shot too. I help you bust your friends out, you get me off this planet with my brain stem intact. Is that really so hard to understand?"

"Fine," muttered Ruth, pouting as she leaned back in her seat. "Don't gotta be an asshole about it…"

-

Dragan sighed. Of all the people he could be stuck with, it had to be Ruth Blaine, who clearly had the mental capacity of algae and the nerve of an exploding sun.

"I'm not being an asshole," he said. "You were being an asshole when you hunted me down, kicked me in the ribs and dragged me down to this hellhole!"

Blaine looked away. "That's not fair; you don't even know why we were doing it."

"Okay. Why were you doing it?"

Blaine looked further away. "Um … Skipper knows."

Dragan buried his face in his arms, screaming a muffled scream of frustration. "Oh my fucking god." He was putting his fate in the hands of this person? He was supposed to break into a secure military installation with only this idiot to help him?

"What?" said Blaine, having the audacity to be offended. "It's called delegation! Need to know basis! All the militaries do that!"

"You're not a military, Blaine," said Dragan, his voice still muffled. "You're three idiots in a spaceship."

"Four!"

He gave her a desperate look. "Please don't group me in with you. I'm actually begging."

Blaine glared at him, an expression that was growing quickly and unfortunately familiar. She crossed her arms. "Okay, then. If you're so smart, then, how are we supposed to bust into this tower? Like you keep whining about, it's got like a million guards."

"I'm not whining," explained Dragan calmly, his patience saintlike. "I'm just being realistic."

"Answer the question, then. Realistically."

"Fine." Dragan leaned forward and brushed the mountains of dust off the table between them. Then, with a finger, he drew a long, tall cylinder using the detritus still remaining.

Blaine cocked her head. "What's that supposed to be?"

"It's the tower."

"It looks like shit."

"No, it looks good. Anyway, it's just an example. It seems to me that in order to break your guys out of the tower, step one is getting into the tower."

"Ooh, how realistic of you."

He shot her a glare. "To get into the tower, we're going to need disguises. The all-over kind of armour the security officers wear, ideally."

Blaine nodded. "I can see how that'd work for me - I'm kinda average size. But you're, like … the size of a bean, to be honest. Won't it be obvious who you are underneath the armour?"

"I'm not short," said Dragan, looking away. "Besides, I'm sure there are loads of short security officers. I'll blend in easy."

Blaine considered the plan for a moment, hand to her chin, nodding sagely as if any kind of thought was going on in that void she called a brain. "If we beat up some officers and take their stuff, won't they know to watch out for us? They keep track of each officer's equipment pretty heavily, too. How are we supposed to get around that? Are you going to hack them or something?"

Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Why would I hack them?"

"Well, you're a Cogitant. Aren't you supposed to be smart?"

He rolled his eyes. This was the kind of stereotyping he expected from a backwater rebel. "I am smart. That doesn't mean I've taken a computer hacking course. You don't suddenly become good with computers once you reach a certain level of intelligence."

"So you can't do it."

"I could do it if I wanted to. I just don't want to."

Blaine was giving him a distinctly pitying look, which if anything only made him more annoyed. Every second he was forced to be in her company he regretted the decision to join up with her. He'd be running for it the first good chance he got, to be sure.

"In regards to the disguises," he said slowly, considering things. "We'll just have to take the risk that they'll be on high alert. So long as we're careful ourselves, we should still be able to sneak in. Then we break your friends out, steal a Supremacy ship from one of the hangars, and get blasted out of the sky on the way out."

"That, uh, that last part of the plan … I don't like it. Can we change that?"

Dragan waved a hand. "We'll think of something when it comes to that," he said, very deliberately not mentioning the insane plan already brewing inside his Archive.

"I feel like we should come up with something now."

He shot her a serious look. "We could. We could sit around here and talk about it, yeah, but while we do that your friends are in the Heart Building, having god knows what done to them. How long do you think it'll take before security decides to jump straight to execution? Not very long at all, I would think. This is time-sensitive."

Blaine paled. Clearly, loyalty to her comrades was something that drove her. Dragan would have to remember that - it could be useful.

'We find some officers," she said quietly, staring down at the table, more to herself than him. "We take their stuff. We sneak in. We bust them out. We leave."

"Right." Dragan nodded.

"It's easy. We can do that.'

"We can." All he had to do was validate her confidence. She wanted to believe she could do it, so she'd accept his confirmation. People were easy like that.

Well, he certainly hoped they were. He'd already figured out the last stage of his plan, and he'd need to keep his wits about him to pull it off.

In order to get out of the system intact, they'd need a hostage. Someone important, who the government absolutely wouldn't want to lose - and Dragan had his eye on a candidate. The man who'd apparently ordered this manhunt for him.

Lord Mayor Rikhail.

Dragan smiled silently to himself. He was nothing if not vindictive.