The movie was trash - absolute trash. The characters were pencil-thin, the plot was nonexistent, and the closest thing to a selling point was the occasional inappropriate camera angle on the main actress. It was as if someone had taken the word 'trash', stretched it to about two hours and five minutes, and used it as the script for a film.

It was exactly what Gologo was looking for.

The Umbrant watched eagerly as yet another action scene erupted on the massive screen before him, the characters alternating between dodging explosions and fighting off the hordes of Supremacy agents that had surrounded them. He'd have to send his regards to the director for that last touch: the propaganda angle wasn't something he'd considered when he'd commissioned this picture.

He was sat, alone, in a massive theatre - going through the massive number of flicks that were waiting to be injected into Taldan's film industry. This wasn't actually a theatre, of course - it was just Gologo's TV room - but he'd had it designed to give off that same impression. His hand fished in his popcorn bucket, seized the last few kernels, and brought them back up to his mouth.

He'd found the title a little bit drab at first - all those years ago - but these days, he really did consider himself a Sponsor of Dreams.

What else could he be called? He heard the cries of those wanting to create, of those wanting their creations to shine, and he gave them the resources to make it happen. Sure, he gave himself some executive control over the production, but that was just how these types of businesses worked - and besides, his changes were for the better every single time.

As the image on the screen shifted to a near-obscene romance scene between two minor characters, someone sat down in the seat next to Gologo. He felt their presence, a kind of pressure that couldn't be ignored.

"This is a good scene," said Gologo calmly, putting his empty bucket of popcorn down on the seat's armrest.

"I don't much care for features like this," the man next to him said, his voice like metal scraping together. "They've always seemed somewhat unsatisfying, compared to real war."

"Real war, huh? You got some experience with that, pal?"

"You already know I do. This is not one of your productions, Sponsor of Dreams. Do not play stupid."

Gologo smirked to himself. It was the Citizen, then - the superstar who'd become a persistent thorn in their sides. It wasn't like anyone else could have made it through all the security posted outside, anyway. Still, best to ask for appearance's sake.

"My bodyguards?"

"Dead."

"That's a shame," Gologo said calmly. "How long have I got, then?"

The Citizen chuckled, a cold hollow sound. "You're very calm. I intend to kill you in about thirty seconds time - unless you'd be willing to provide information of use to me?"

Gologo reached into his cupholder, pulled out his soft drink, and took a long and noisy slurp through the plastic straw. It went down smooth and cold, just the way he'd always liked it.

"Sorry," he said, smacking his lips to savour the flavour as much as possible. "I've never been much of a tattletale."

"I see."

The sound of the film's climax was - for a brief moment - drowned out by the sudden and incessant slicing of meat. To his credit, Gologo didn't so much as shout - he was much too engrossed in the spectacle of it all.

The credits began to roll.

"The Sponsor of Dreams is dead," said the Sponsor of War, addressing the gathered Sponsors - as well as President Chael and Secretary Zhao.

Nobody said a word. It wasn't the silence of a vigil, though - but the quiet concentration of rats determining how best to twist this situation into their favour. For a good long while, the only sound was the hum of the hologram projectors in the walls and floor.

The Sponsor of Plenty broke the silence.

"I think it's time we ask," she asked, porcine avatar writhing as it turned from one of its fellows to the other. "Just how we've managed to find such a useless President."

Chael shuffled awkwardly, staring down at his shoes like a scolded child. Zhao did his best to restrain the contempt in his eyes, but he knew he hadn't quite managed it.

"I'm afraid I must concur," the Sponsor of Expansion launched into a monologue, tentacles angrily crashing through the air in time with his words. His usual grandfatherly tone had turned low and harsh, a genuine rage bubbling just under the surface. "Yes, concur. We have asked - not once, but twice - of the President, our President, that he executes his public duty and ensures those who threaten the peace of Taldan be brought to justice! And yet, and yet! Is the Citizen dealt with? Is he wounded, brought low, shown his folly? Quite the opposite! No!"

The final denial shook the room, such was the force of it.

"Expansion," snapped the Sponsor of Industry, silver body creaking. "It would be best if we all kept our heads."

"No!" the Sponsor of Expansion cried again. "No no no! Nay! We have kept our heads for long enough, and where has that taken us, hmm? Have we reached verdant and green fields? Has opportunity knocked upon our doors? The answer is, as ever, as expected, in the negatory! We have been met with bitter disappointment - and all of it, stemming from the incompetence of that man there!"

Chael simply stood there, shivering, as the anger of the Sponsors turned directly upon him. Even Zhao, standing close, could feel it. It was as if they were being illuminated by a dozen fiery spotlights.

"Nothing to say?" Plenty hissed, baleful eyes glaring with contempt for Chael's very existence.

Chael shuffled, his voice meek and quiet as he spoke. "It was the S4 who, um, who actually failed. I - I didn't have control over that."

"You blame War for this?" There was murder in Plenty's tone.

"As perhaps he should," Industry cut in, a flare of light from within his metal body grabbing the attention of those gathered. He turned to face the silent Sponsor of War. "You asked us to put our trust in you, War, and told us that you would resolve the situation. I fail to see any evidence of that actually happening."

"Have some damn respect!" Plenty shouted.

"I have nothing but respect for my esteemed colleague," Industry went on. "Just as I respected the Sponsor of Dreams. We cannot deny that in the course of a few days we have gone from the six most powerful people on the planet to the four most powerful. This is not a trend I much care for."

"On the planet?" War chuckled quietly.

"You find this amusing, War?!" Expansion's voice boomed, forcing Zhao to put his hands to his ears. "Laughable?! Humorous?! Some kind of joke, perhaps?! Well I - and we, yes, we comrades-in-arms - we do not agree! Not in the slightest! You offer us soothing words and deliver nothing but failure - unrepentant failure in the extreme, with the only profit made being the number of corpses!"

"Watch your fucking mouth," Plenty snarled, but the flow of the conversation had turned against her.

"Anything to say, War?" Industry creaked, hollow eyes staring right at the bull.

Zhao gulped. The tension was so thick in this room, he swore he could feel it pressing down on his shoulders, threatening to crush him into a fine paste the second he lost his nerve. He glanced at Chael: the President looked just as shaken, still staring down at the floor.

"I asked for a fortnight," War said calmly - his words just as soothing as Expansion had described. "A fortnight has not yet passed. I ask only for patience, my friends. The disinformation countermeasures Dreams put together - Y rest his soul - are still intact. I assure you, all of this will be resolved in due time."

Industry didn't seem impressed. "So all you can offer us is 'wait and see'."

"It is a matter of faith, my friend," War said. "I have always acted in the interest of this council. Please, trust that I do the same now. I will not allow all our work to be for nothing. You can believe that, if nothing else, can't you?"

"I am not a trusting man, War," Industry snapped. "It's why I am still alive. It seems I must deal with this matter myself. Expansion - a word after the meeting, if you please."

And with that, Industry shattered into shards of fading metal, the person controlling it leaving the meeting.

The other three left too, without so much as a word to Chael or Zhao. It seemed that the tensions that had erupted between them had kept Chael's head out of the guillotine - if only for the moment.

Chael patted his pockets, presumably searching for some form of narcotics, before sighing and letting his arms flop to his side. "Must've left it in my other suit," he frowned.

Zhao heroically resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He - and his nose - knew for a fact that Chael wore the same suit every day.

"They won't remain distracted for long," Zhao said softly, as though the Sponsors were still in the room with them. "How do you intend to appease them?"

"Eh," shrugged Chael, with confidence he clearly didn't feel. "These things tend to work themselves out."

He strolled out of the meeting room - and as he moved down the hallway, his white-suited bodyguard silently fell into step with him. If nothing else, Chael was diligent when it came to covering his own back.

Ruth hugged her knees as she glared forwards, as though she were trying to burn through empty space with just the strength of her gaze.

She'd failed. She'd failed. She was a failure. A sudden flare of anger animated her, and she struck the bed beneath her with such strength that the light fixtures rattled above.

After they'd come back from the hospital, security had been quick to move the members of the crew into separate rooms. A punishment for failure, maybe? Ruth didn't know. She didn't know anything. Still, though, it seemed to her that the line between working for these people and being arrested by them was getting blurrier all the time.

If this was a punishment for failure, then it was a failure that lay at her feet alone. Skipper had trusted her to grab Sait, and she'd frozen up at the first sign of danger. She hadn't even tried to fight the Citizen. She'd just let him walk all over her.

If he'd raised a blade towards her, could she have fought back? Would her cowardly legs have let her move, then?

She didn't know - and that was more terrifying than the prospect of death. She'd always defined herself by her willingness to act, to do something where other people would just watch. It looked like she'd been lying to herself.

What would Robin have said to that? Some words of encouragement, maybe, with a sad smile to go with it. Nice to look at, but never much help.

What would North have said to that? The Umbrant had never had a kind tongue, but he'd given good advice, on the rare occasions she'd sought it. The trouble with that kind of advice is that Ruth wasn't smart enough to come up with it on her own.

She went to sigh, but it came out as a sob.

Stupid. Stupid.

"You're thinking I don't know your faces," grunted Dragan, as the guards pushed him down the hallway. "But I'll remember your voices - even through the modulation, Cogitants can tell, you know. You keep messing with me like this, and I'll find you."

In this kind of situation, he had little other option for retribution than annoying his captors. And he was going to do a hell of a job at it. They weren’t just going to shut him up.

"Shut him up," grunted the first guard to the second - and a moment later, Dragan felt a baton strike him right in the gut. It was quite effective. Dragan was sent doubling over, his next threat turning into a choked cough as it left his mouth.

With that, he couldn't muster much in the terms of resistance as they dragged him through the hallways of the security complex, knees sliding against the smooth floor as he went.

Left, right, straight, left, left.

Even in this state of pain and disorientation, Dragan's mind couldn't help but track his progress through the complex. He'd started off in the infirmary - recovering from his injuries - but now he was being taken to a part of the complex he'd never seen before. An execution room, maybe? A convenient room in which to shoot him in the back of the head?

Unlikely - but not impossible. The thought sent chills down Dragan's spine.

Finally, his escorts reached a nondescript door off to the side of a storage room. One of them punched in a code on the keypad next to it, blissfully unaware that Dragan was memorizing it just from the blurry movements of his finger. The door slid silently open. Nothing but blackness was visible beyond.

"Get in there," said the guard behind him - shoving him into the dark room.

He landed awkwardly on his hands - and as he did, he heard the door shut behind him. The small amount of light that had penetrated this room was instantly snuffed out. Shakily, Dragan reached up to his face, wiped away some of the blood that had dribbled from his lip.

His ears detected the slightest hum coming from the walls. A hologram projector, without a doubt.

There was a hollow click - and a moment later, a flaming bull had burst into life just before him, bathing the room in its hellish red glow. Dragan had to squint - he hadn't been so close to the thing last time.

The Sponsor of War blinked slowly, placidly.

"Dragan Hadrien," it said. "I have an offer for you."