Dragan watched grimly as the Slipstream #3 approached the Cradle. If nothing else, it truly was a sight to behold.

Like a metal moon, it orbited the planet below -- Ventos, a pale blue gas giant -- it's metal surface glinting from the reflected sunlight. It's body was dotted with blue lightpointers, ready to fire off ships wherever they needed to go -- and catch those coming in. Moving from lightpoint to lightpoint essentially entailed firing yourself out of a giant cannon: not the most elegant method of travel, but it worked.

He sat cross-legged in the co-pilots seat, doing his best to ignore the straps that littered the inside of their new ship. Skipper sat a little ahead, fingers dancing across the control panel as he programmed in their entry route. His hands still moving, the captain glanced over his shoulder to look at Dragan.

"You okay?" he asked, flicking a switch with a metal thumb.

Dragan silently nodded.

"If you don't wanna go, we can still turn back," Skipper went on. "Believe me, I'm not happy to be back in Supremacy space, either. Just say the word, pal."

"I'm fine," Dragan replied tersely, not looking fine at all.

For a moment, it looked like Skipper would persist further -- but in the end, he simply sighed and turned back to the console. The Cradle drew closer, ready to receive them.

"Whatever you say, kid," he muttered under his breath.

"I'm not going," Dragan hissed a week earlier, storming into his quarters.

The rooms on the Slipstream #3 were small, cramped affairs -- most likely storage closets that had been repurposed some time ago. As such, the only thing this little box had room for was a shelf, a chest for clothes, and a mattress on the floor. There was barely even enough room for Dragan to pace angrily.

Skipper poked his head in through the door, frowning. "That's a pretty quick decision there," he said slowly. "You sure you don't wanna think about it?"

Dragan turned to look at him, his brow knitted in anger. Red-hot fury was boiling inside his body, eager for any way to escape, and this time it came out through his voice.

"There's nothing to think about!" he yelled, his cry bouncing off the walls of the tiny room. "Give me a hammer, I'll just smash the thing and act like we never got it."

Skipper sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped into the room fully. "Not gonna pretend I get the circumstances, kiddo, but don't ya think you're being a little hasty here?"

Dragan shot him an icy glare. "What? You think I should go help him out with his little gang war?"

"Not necessarily," Skipper waved his metal arm uncomfortably. "I'm just saying it can't hurt to think about it. Maybe there's another angle you can come at it from, yeah?"

Dragon's eyes narrowed. Skipper wasn't normally like this: something was going on. A scan of the guilt on his face was enough to pull that forward into the light.

"You want something, don't you?" he asked, his arms crossed.

Skipper winced as he sat down, cross-legged, on the bed. "Can't get anything past you, huh?"

The attempt at levity was swiftly deflected. "What is it you want?" If looks could kill, Dragan would have drilled through Skipper's skull long ago.

The man sighed, rubbing his hands over his face -- suddenly, it seemed as though he hadn't slept for a very long time, the exhaustion pressing down on his bones. "It ain't easy to fight the absolute, you know? I know that. You know that."

"You're talking about the Supreme."

This, if nothing else, captured Dragon's attention -- he sat down next to Skipper, rapt in attention. For a moment, at least, his anger faded.

Skipper silently nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You've been thinking about it, right? That the Supreme's impossible to beat -- for folks like you and me, at least."

There was no point in hiding it. Dragan mirrored Skipper's nod.

"The only way it can be done, really," Skipper went on, rubbing his metal fingers together. "Is if we lead the bastard into a very specific, very enticing trap. And that sort of thing needs help to set up, needs resources… you get me?"

The train of thought was easy enough to follow from there. "You want to get in good with the Oliphant Clan," Dragan muttered. "So you can use them to help kill the Supreme."

"Yep," Skipper clicked his tongue. "I'm kind of a bastard, huh?"

Was he? Dragan honestly couldn't tell whether he felt used or not. It wasn't like Skipper was hiding anything from him: he'd just come out and said it. That in itself was a little refreshing.

"I'm not telling ya to do anything," Skipper sighed. "But…"

Dragan pulled his knees tight against his chest. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. "But you have a preference, right?"

"Yeah. I've got a preference."

If it was for a cause, then maybe -- just maybe -- Dragan could stomach meeting that man again. Maybe he could stomach remembering those things again. Even if the very thought of it made him nauseous, made his breathing tight, he could force himself through it if he made it necessary.

He took a deep breath.

-

As the exit ramp to the Slipstream #3 descended, Dragan didn't even have to look around the hangar to spot the man himself.

Mr. Fix hadn't changed much since the last time Dragan had seen him, years and years ago. If anything, his grey skin had just become the tiniest bit more wrinkled, and the black overcoat and hat he wore over his wide body was just a tad more expensive. His stern, stony gaze and rigid posture hadn't changed in the slightest either -- he just stood there, hands clasped in front of him, as the group approached.

Bruno nudged Dragan with his shoulder as they descended the ramp. "You get the feeling this is a trap," he muttered. "You let me know. I won't hesitate."

Well, if nothing else, it was good to know Bruno was willing to commit crimes on his behalf. Dragan nodded in response, steeling himself as he drew closer and closer to the past.

Hands around his neck.

Dragan shook his head as if that would blow the old thoughts away.

Skipper strode at the head of the pack, hands plunged into his coat pockets -- as if that would prevent him from attacking -- while Ruth and Bruno flanked Dragan on either side. If this was a trap, which Dragan doubted, Fix would have a hell of a time actually getting to him.

The group stopped as they met their host at the mouth of the hangar. Fix spoke first, his voice like gravel as his firm black eyes settled on Dragan.

"You've gotten taller," he lied. "Are you eating well?"

Dragan had no patience for these bullshit pleasantries -- they hadn't come here to catch up on old times, so there was no point in maintaining such an illusion. Still, he was surprised at how quiet his own voice sounded as he opened his mouth.

"Cut the crap, Fix," he said angrily. "What's this about debts being repaid? I don't owe you a damn thing."

Fix's eyebrow lifted, just a fraction. "Is that what you think? I'm sorry I didn't make myself more clear. I fed you, housed you, and got you into that Supremacy academy. Did you think I did that out of the goodness of my heart?"

Dragan was fully aware of why Fix had done it -- it wasn't the reason he was implying, but it was sickening all the same. He snorted in derision. "And you really think I'm gonna fall down hand and knee to repay that for you?"

Again, the eyebrow shifted just slightly. "You're here, aren't you?"

"Hey hey hey," Skipper chuckled, stepping between Fix and Dragan, extending his metal arm. "Before we get down to all the unpleasantries, why don't we introduce ourselves? It's only polite, yeah? Name's Skipper, pal. Put her there."

The Scurrant accepted the handshake, his own grey skin a near-match for Skipper's steel. "Fix. I don't believe we've met."

"Nah, we haven't. Mr. Hadrien over here really hates your guts, you know."

Skipper's grin didn't falter as the casual hostility left his mouth. If Dragan hadn't been listening properly, he doubted he would have even caught it. Fix, for his part, didn't even twitch in response.

"I'm aware," he said calmly -- before pulling out his script and tapping the screen a few times. "I've sent schedules and blueprints of the building to your scripts. Please make sure you've received them."

Dragan frowned. "Building?"

"You're going to be acting as guards along with myself as the Oliphant Clan conducts their annual meeting. By having more and stronger guards, my employer will appear superior in the eyes of his siblings, and will have a more favourable negotiating position. All I ask is that you people stand with me and look formidable."

Dragon's frown deepened. Fix didn't appear to be lying -- he wasn't the type -- but something still seemed off. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"Unless an actual threat does show up, right?" Bruno spoke up, his glare an utter contrast to Serena's cutesy attire. "You'd want us to fight them off."

"Yes," Fix nodded. "I'd want you to fight them off. That goes without saying."

With that, an awkward silence settled over the hangar, the only sounds being the tiny beeps of scripts as the group made sure they'd received Fix's message. Dragan was the only one to stay still, glaring silently at Fix.

There was a chorus of nods from the group as they confirmed the message -- and with that, Fix turned and began to walk away. "The meeting is tonight -- I included the time and place. I look forward to seeing you there."

He turned a corner past the huge hangar doors, and with that he was gone. Dragan let out a breath he'd been holding in for quite a while.

"Well," Skipper slapped his hands together in self-satisfaction. "He seemed nice! Playing bodyguard for a few hours doesn't seem too bad to me -- especially if I can get a little chat started with our, ah, employer."

Ruth looked over, her golden eyes scanning Dragan's troubled expression. "He seem like he was up to something to you?" she asked. "I thought he was shady, but some guys are just like that. You actually know him."

Dragan tried to nod and shake his head at the same time, resulting in an incomprehensible wiggle. "Maybe. No. I don't know… he's not the lying type, but I get the feeling he didn't tell us everything there was to know. I don't know if that's intentional or if he just didn't think it was relevant… still…"

"You don't trust him," Bruno finished his sentence.

"I don't trust him," Dragan nodded.

"Well," grunted Skipper, joints cracking as he stretched. "You can not trust him all you like at the hotel. This place has hotels, right? I've done the whole tough living thing and it ain't fun."

The Cradle really was something to behold.

Bruno's eyes flicked around the streets as they made their way to the hotel Dragan had pulled up on his script, wary of any signs they were being followed. In an unclear situation, in unknown territory, you could never be too careful.

It was hard to imagine a situation they could be any more exposed in. The skyscrapers that stretched above were prime real estate for snipers, while the network of alleyways and crowded streets made a sneak attack from someone wielding a knife or pistol very much possible. Bruno couldn't stop his back muscles from tensing as they walked down the street, the crowds billowing around them.

Mr. Dragan seems really down. Serena's voice came through loud and clear, bouncing around the inside of his skull.

Bruno shrugged. "You don't choose family," he whispered, almost silent. "Or… whatever he and this Fix guy are. Like us with Cott, maybe."

Serena didn't respond, save for a dangerous mental growl at the mention of the traitor's name. Usually, he'd be more careful not to bring that up, but this whole situation had him on the wrong foot. Once they got their bearings, then --

Being watched, Bruno, Serena hissed.

Bruno whirled around at once, a stray spark of purple Aether running through his blond hair. His eyes scanned the area faster than ever -- the surprised faces of passing pedestrians, the dark mouths of alleys, the gleaming glass of skyscrapers.

He saw everything, but he didn't see the hostile gaze that Serena had alerted him to. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax.

Ruth, standing behind him, spoke up first. "You two okay?" she said, arm lifted in such a way that she'd be ready to manifest her claws. "You see something?"

Slowly, Bruno shook his head. "No… nothing."

The Last Chance Casino was going to be a marvel once it was finished. Construction of the steel gambling palace had been halted due to contract disputes, but when it was done it would be a hotel, casino and amusement park all in one. You'd hardly have to take a single step to find a new way to throw your money away.

The penthouse was barely a skeleton, all framework and concrete, but that was the way Carla Oliphant liked it. The whole dust-and-dagger aesthetic really spoke to her. She was laid back on a couch, her feet resting on the table in front of her as she slipped whiskey from her private flask.

The only sources of light were the candlestick on the table and the flickering neon outside. Simulated rainfall fizzled holographically in the night-shift air. The time of day differed depending on where you were on the Cradle, but Carla preferred the night -- much easier to get around quietly.

"You should really calm down," she called out to the other woman in the room. "Pacing like that won't make time go any faster."

The girl cast her a glare -- a sad attempt to mask her anxiety -- before coming to a halt, crossing her arms. Her tied-back hair and black kimono were so dark that she nearly blended right into the poorly lit room. The only trace of colour on her was the embroidered red centipede on her eyepatch, winding in a circle.

"I don't like this," she mumbled. "He should be here by now. Shouldn't he be here by now?"

"Patience, Keiko, patience," yawned Karla, the very picture of relaxation as she lazily tapped her nose. "He's being paid well -- for people like him, that's the only motivator for loyalty. These are the kinds of games grown-ups play. Besides… from what I hear, he doesn't leave that just lying around."

Her eyes flicked over to the object in the corner of the room, Keiko's cyclopean gaze following. There, bound tight by black chains, was a metal coffin. A palm-reader protruded from the surface, and Carla was willing to bet there were more layers of security behind even that.

Keiko audibly gulped. "What… do you think's in there?"

Carla shrugged. "No clue. Best to mind your own business when it comes to these sorts of things."

Keiko opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted by a new arrival -- shoes clicking against the wooden floor as their third made his way through the labyrinth of scaffolding.

"Best indeed," the young man chuckled, stepping into view. "I hope I didn't keep you ladies waiting too long."

The mercenary flicked his long orange hair back as he entered the room, a lopsided smirk on his freckled face. He was wearing a blue blazer and a pair of dress pants, making him almost look like some kind of private school student -- a few seconds in a place like this, though, and those fancy clothes would be drowned in dust. His green eyes flicked around the room, like a machine scanning for threats -- checking the coffin first of all.

Keiko scowled, narrowing her eyes at the young man. "You're late," she snapped. "I told you never to be late."

"Caution got back to me," the young man said without a care in the world. "Apparently, an old friend of mine's arrived on the Cradle. It caught my interest, so I got delayed a little bit. Sorry."

"Oh?" Carla raised an eyebrow as she rolled over on the couch to get a good look at their guest. "Someone I should know?"

"Nah," he waved a hand. "Nothing you should worry about."

As he spoke, the smirk on his face slackened, just slightly -- like some faint ghost of frustration was making itself known on his face. It was still likely that this man's greed would outweigh any other concerns, but Carla wasn't one-hundred percent sure she could trust that.

After all, Cottian del Sed wasn't the most reliable person around.