Dragan resisted the urge to fidget.

Riding an elevator was awkward at the best of times, let alone when almost all the other occupants had orders to shoot you on sight. If worst came to worst, Blaine could probably take the advantage in such a confined space, but Dragan wasn't confident he'd be able to get out of the way fast enough to avoid being hit himself. Maybe he could, maybe things would turn out well - but sadly, he saw further kickings of ribs in his future.

"Prison levels are in the middle of the tower," he muttered over the comms, more for his benefit than Blaine's. "We'll arrive in twenty seconds or so. We'll have to walk out of the elevator without looking around at all, so that it looks like we know where we're going. Just keep walking until we're out of sight, then we can get our bearings."

"What?" said Blaine. "Sorry, I was kinda spacing out."

Maybe being shot on sight wasn't such a bad idea after all.

The doors opened with a friendly ding, and Dragan strode forward - not too quickly, he didn't want to look anxious. He didn't dare look around, so he could only trust that Blaine was following after him. Oh Y, please let Blaine be following after him.

The sound of bootsteps came after him, multiple sets. Three people. One set of bootsteps matched Blaine's weight, but the other two were unfamiliar. They marched with purpose. An actual patrol.

Dragan could have screamed, but that would have been driving a nail into his own coffin. Maybe if he just acted casual, he could get away with -

"Hey, bud," came a modulated male voice from behind him. "Hold up a sec."

Welp, Dragan thought. I'm dead.

Dragan turned, bracing himself for the plasma fire to the chest that he knew was coming. Would it melt right through the chest plate, or did he have a chance to survive? Only one way to find out, he supposed.

The other guard, the one who had spoken, looked at him and Blaine, cocking his head. His partner stood behind him. They both held rifles, not yet aiming, but the promise was there.

He suddenly became aware of just how loud his own heartbeat was, like an earthquake in his ears.

"You guys lost or something?" the guard said with surprising friendliness.

Dragan opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out - only a quiet cracking sound, which the microphone luckily didn't pick up.

Blaine answered instead: "Haha, yeah," she said, shrugging. "That obvious?"

"You're like two lost puppies," the guard chuckled. "Felt sorry for ya. Just get reassigned?"

Dragan nodded mutely.

"Nice, nice. Well, it's an easy gig if you play your cards right. Mostly just walking the halls, you know?"

"That's - that's what I like to hear!" Dragan yelled.

He could have shot himself. The reply had come out of his mouth way too loud, way too nervous. His voice had even cracked in the middle. He sounded like two kids in a trench coat rather than a trained soldier of the Supremacy.

The guard's partner laughed. "Hey, this guy gets it! Where you guys headed? We can probably shoot you -"

Dragan winced.

"-some directions," the partner concluded.

Blaine straightened up. Even with her idiocy, she clearly had more experience with this kind of thing than Dragan. She spoke: "Our briefing said something about a priority prisoner - we're meant to be handling a transfer."

"Ah," the guard nodded sagely. "Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. It's supposed to be a big deal. The guy's on P62, one of the red-level containment cells."

"P62," said Dragan quietly. "Yeah, I knew it was something like that."

"Right?" said Blaine, hands on her hips. "And you thought we were lost, Dr…"

Dragon's eyes widened so much he thought for a second that they would just spill out of his sockets. She wouldn't. Surely she wouldn't say his name. She wasn't that stupid. Nobody in the world could be that stupid.

"...Drobo," Blaine finished, doing the verbal equivalent of a high-speed drift. "You're such a worrier."

He glanced at the guards. There was no way they would fall for such an obviously fake name.

They were walking away, one giving a thumbs-up over their shoulder. "You work hard now, Drobo! Don't go causing trouble for your friend!" he laughed.

Dragan blinked. At some point in the last few hours, he had clearly slipped into a portal and entered Nightmare World. There was no way these events were actually happening.

"See?" said Blaine over the comms, her voice unbearably self-satisfied. "P-62. Easy-peasy."

-

Skipper glared at Rikhail as the Lord Mayor eagerly scrolled through his script, a grin building up on his face like trash in a gutter.

"Oh, this is rich," Rikhail said, his face illuminated unflatteringly by the glow from his script. "This is gold. The tracker from his cadet suit. Thank you very much, Mr…"

The man paused before glancing at the interrogator, Crossland.

"His name?" Rikhail said, jerking his head towards his prisoner.

"We don't, ah, don't have that, sir," Crossland said. "No personal information of any kind in the Supremacy records, save his picture."

Rikhail glanced at Skipper strapped to the steel block, looking him up and down. "And yet the picture was enough," he mused. "That's very, very interesting."

Skipper could have strangled the man, looking so smug when he had no idea what kind of forces he was meddling with. If he called Araman, this whole building would end up a smear on the ground before long. The Third Contender wasn't one for half measures.

The Lord Mayor took in a deep breath, looking down on the ground, clearly mulling something over. A wave of dread ran through Skipper's body, feeling almost as though he were slowly, steadily sinking into the steel block. Would the bastard just contact Araman anyway?

"Get him into stasis," he said finally, after a moment. "He'll make a good bargaining chip once I become Minister."

"Excuse me?" said the Special Officer.

Rikhail froze, eyes the size of dinner-plates. His skin turned so pale it almost looked like he'd died on the spot. Skipper could have burst out laughing; had the Lord Mayor actually forgotten who else was in the room with him?

"Yes," muttered Rikhail, terror quiet. "What is … um, what is the issue, Mr. Muzazi?"

The Special Officer - his name was Muzazi, apparently - spoke calmly, evenly. You could hear the discipline in every syllable. "It's my understanding that Mr. Goley is currently Minister of the Caelus system. There are no plans for that to change in the near future, as far as I'm aware. Do you know something that I don't, sir?"

The sandy-haired man put a hand on Muzazi's shoulder, that same easy grin on his face. "Sir, I'm sure the Lord Mayor simply meant-"

"Then I would hear it from the Lord Mayor himself."

Muzazi's hand was resting on the sheath of his sword, clearly ready to bring it out at a moment's notice. His eyes were drilling into Rikhail, his mouth a flat line of displeasure.

Rikhail opened his mouth to speak - and only a hoarse squeak emerged. It seemed his body, at least, was aware of the fact that it might not survive the next few seconds.

Muzazi took a step forward.

"Well!" said Rikhail, finding his voice. "One should always be prepared for anything, Mr. Muzazi, prepared for anything!"

The swordsman paused.

A sliver of hope emerging, Rikhail continued on, waving his hands wildly to punctuate his points. "It's said - they say - there's a saying, ah, that you should conduct yourself in a matter suiting, befitting the occupation you want, rather than the one you have! So, that is, yes, what I am doing! Conducting myself in my, my ideal position as Minister!"

Muzazi didn't budge, the only movement his eyes tracking Rikhail.

"And, and!" Rikhail went on. "After all! Was self-advancement - self-betterment - not the bedrock upon which the Supremacy was founded?! Would you ask the Crownless King why he dared to dream of becoming the Supreme?! Of course not! And so it is here! I am simply climbing the ladder towards my dream! Is that wrong?!"

A moment passed. The only sounds in the room were those of distant dripping water and Rikhail's exhausted panting.

Rikhail winced as Muzazi closed his eyes. Then, the swordsman spoke: "Magnificent."

With that, he stepped back into the shadows of the room and was silent. A moment later, Rikhail let out a loud breath he'd obviously been holding in for quite a while.

Regaining his confidence, Rikhail shook his script, looking at Crossland. "Hadrien's in an apartment on the outskirts of the city. I want a squad sent out there to deal with him."

Skipper looked away shamefully. He could tell himself he'd sold Dragan out to save the people that Araman would otherwise kill, but he knew that wasn't quite true. He just couldn't afford to get caught yet.

"I'll go," said Muzazi - Rikhail almost jumped out of his skin when the Special Officer spoke up again. "Minister Goley entrusted me with resolving the Hadrien situation. I'll do so now."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Rikhail, looking only too happy to be rid of Muzazi. "If you will accompany him, Prescott."

"Of course," said the sandy-haired man - Prescott, apparently. The man had a wicked edge to his smile; Skipper was sure Muzazi wasn't in for a pleasant trip.

Muzazi marched out of the room, Prescott following after him.

"Well, then," said Rikhail, his bluster quickly returning now that everyone who could challenge him had left the room. "If there's nothing else -"

The doors slid open.

-

The doors slid open.

Dragan and Blaine stood in the entrance to the room, staring in at the priority cell. The place was cold - colder than ordinary Supremacy installations. This was a place intended to be uncomfortable, after all.

"Oh," said Blaine quietly, as she saw the prisoner.

"Yeah," replied Dragan. "Oh."

Now that he thought about it, those guards had been really very vague about the 'priority prisoner'. He really was an idiot.

The man called the Hyena looked up at them from his restraints.

"Oh! It time for dinner? Lunch?" he grinned. "Supper?"