The grating sound of metal on concrete echoed through the sewers, daylight piercing the relative darkness below. The muggy, organic smell rose through the opening as a figure moved into the shaft. Roland braced himself against the rungs as he slid the cover back into place with a heavy thud, silence and solitude returning. Hand over hand, he descended into the tunnels near the subterranean access of the Sanctuary.

The tunnel looked dingy and out of service. He couldn't be sure that the entrance would still be there, but after the long road home, he would probably do as well in the darkness with the vermin. None of them were seeking his head. Even if they were, they were honest about their intentions. His long fingers traced against the slimy bricks, seeking the familiar turn into a seeming dead end. Once found, the right pressure in the right places would allow for entry. The familiarity reminded him of Alexandra.

A well lubricated slide of metal moved behind Roland , once he had stepped through the threshold. There was little doubt that his presence had been detected, but the years he had spent in prison, be it one with walls or not, made him less concerned about whether or not he was being watched. He just assumed that he was always under surveillance and it made things easier. At the moment, a hot shower was his first interest.

The halls seemed familiar in a nonspecific way. Dark and empty. It was a stark contrast to the life he had led, a number and someone on your back all day. He could remember how much he had once adored silence, as unnerving as it had become. Once in the dormitory area, Roland began a schedule of knocks and slight openings of doors to find an empty berth. As it had been before, the Sanctuary seemed underpopulated. An empty room came soon and the door was closed behind.

Nostrils flared. A set of headphones shifted away from ears as the brown-haired guy looked to his roommate, eyebrow raised, perturbed. "What smells like sewage?"

The other guy lifted an arm and sniffed. "Isn't me"

"Weird."

"Hey. Did you hear a bunch of doors opening and shutting in the hallway outside?" The other guy asked innocuously.

"Head. Phones." The brown-haired mutant tapped them on the side of his neck.

A third onlooker, their buddy Rex, hissed as his forked tongue dangled from his mouth. He looked like a bearded lizard, and pronounced his letter S very well, better than some Italians say R. "Idiotssssssss," he muttered. "I sthink ssssomeone came up from the ssssewerssss."

Guy two blinked. He hadn't really been described yet, so it was important to start at that moment in time, since he had four eyes. That made the action of blinking notable. Also of note was the fact that each eye had a different color. Red, blue, green, and hazel. He scratched his chin, and stopped playing his game console. The controller gently touched down on the floor. He scratched a socked toe. "They still use that entrance? I thought that woman closed it down?"

"She doesn't know," the brown-haired mutant rolled his eyes, as if eye-boy was the dumbest person in the room. His headphones rested on his shoulders. Dubstep streamed from them quietly, though loud enough one could hear. He'd probably go deaf before he was 40.

"Maybe sssssomeone ssssshould tell herrrrr?" Lizard-man tsk'd. "Sssssomeone could sssssneak in..."

"Bro, I think they already have." Headphones sighed. He pushed his headphones back up on his head, as if that solved that problem.

Lizardman shot up and skittered out the door at a speed that made both men think he could probably run on water. A few minutes later, long enough for a shower, and for the two mutants in the room listening to music and playing games to stop noticing a fishy stink, Boss Lady. That Woman. The Adapted. Walked down the hall, nudging doors. Lizardman flanked her, gesturing and hissing explanations as they went.

The deco had been updated. At least since he had been there. Anything beat his many accommodations over the years he had been gone. Roland believed that he would be able to lounge in some segregation unit in a supermax, but INTERPOL had different ideas. The shower hissed to life as he stepped inside, his clothes in a wad in the corner of the bathroom. Unlike the man that had been here before, with his perfectly pressed existence.

Hot water streamed over the man's body, a canvas of bullet and knife wounds. The soap was applied and scrubbed, though he knew that no amount of washing would ever get him clean. At least no one was watching him as he showered. The silence was golden. Stepping out, Roland stretched out a symphony of pops and cracks before seeing himself in the mirror. The steam had not entirely clouded the glass and the dark band of leathery skin, formerly known as his neck, was very clear in the mirror. A sigh left his lips as he gingerly examined it with his fingers. Being collared for long periods did that. Humans with power did that.

Sliding into the black jeans he had worn for the last two weeks seemed to clash with the cleanliness of his body, but he didn't have anything else. It had been nothing but his covert skills for him to make it back to where he had begun. The wifebeater and the ragged boxers were dropped in the trashcan, a long sleeved dark blue shirt being buttoned up in the absence of the filthy underclothes. The steam kept his stink in the air, but he could just leave it behind, as he often had done with many filthy things.

Roland suspected someone would come to greet him, but he had no idea who it would be. The tenants and the management shifted so much in the Sanctuary that the very moniker the group held with pride seemed an oxymoron. Order. Somewhere, there was, he imagined. Taking a seat on the bed provided, he searched his jeans for the Dunhill Internationals. He had saved them until he arrived, the clear cellophane being carefully removed as he took one of the cigarettes out. No lighter, however. Looking around, he could see his Zippo on the sink in the bathroom. His palm opened and it appeared there. A click, a strike and a click brought the sweet draw of tobacco smoke into Roland's lungs.

Flanked by Rex the lizardman, they made their way down the hall. Knock knock, check. Knock knock, check. Knock knock, check. On the third knock, Rex adjusted his collar and idly scratched his neck. Pulling back from checking inside the room, Lenna looked his way just as he tried to catch her attention.

"Ma'am."

Perhaps, he was worried about privacy? Though with a potential intruder in the Sanctuary, and Sanctuary resident security in-question, that seemed unlikely. She had to check. If she were an intruder in the Sanctuary who had climbed up through the sewers, then hid in a room, she wouldn't likely have answered the first set of knocks with a "Hello, yes?" So why should anyone else? She prepared herself for answering any and all concerns or questions he had. He brought up something entirely different, and her brows arched slightly in understanding, before she replied to him mildly.

"I'm feelin' a bit sssick, actually. Can I--"

She answered before he had to finish. "Of course. You're free to go. Thank you, Rex." Politely, she dismissed him. He gave her a brief nod, then made himself scarce, scurrying away.

The only illness she suspected from Rex had nothing to do with sickness or problems of health, and everything to do with her aura. It had disagreed with him, and he had been polite. She was thankful for that. She'd yet to be forced to recreate the famous scene from Kill Bill Volume 1 where Lucy Liu's character expressed in no uncertain terms her willingness to hear (and answer) any respectfully-phrased concerns and questions from her fellow Yakuza members, save for one...

Nobody had brought up her blood status in the negative since she'd taken a leadership position, yet. Her being a Non-Mutant at the helm of a Pro-Mutant organization. At least, not to her face. And thus, she hadn't had to claim any heads. She was glad for it. Blood stained something fierce, and her katana needed sharpening. Still, she mused, as she moved to the next door, it was inevitable. It would have to happen some time.

As her fist rapped against the door, she caught the faint scent of cigarette smoke wafting from somewhere nearby. "Hello. Anyone in there?" She asked, as her lips pursed in uncertainty.

Trails of smoke traced from Roland's nostrils as he stared at the carpet beneath his feet. How long had it been that such a thing could be enjoyed? Tile and concrete were the usual thing underfoot. Certainly not with bare feet. A stray ash fell next to his pinky, igniting a reaction of movement in the digit. The sensation was so simple and luxurious that it gave the killer pause. Freedom was rarely so palpable, akin to silence.

Of course, both were fleeting. Roland could hear voices and footsteps making their way toward him. It wasn't some preternatural sense telling him this. Many days had passed for him where footsteps brought food or punishment. Standing, he looked at the door, his body turning in an aggressive posture. He had the cigarette to start the show, if nothing else. Realization flashed cross his features at his error. Even if no one knew him, Lisa at least could vouch for him. There was nothing to fear here. He was in Sanctuary, after all.

Turning toward the bathroom, Roland walked in and wet the burning end of his cigarette beneath the faucet's flow. The knock came and he dropped the used carcinogen into the wastebasket. Looking into the reflection once more, he simply said, "Here we go." Turning again, he strode to the door as if it was his room and he had been there for years. Pulling it open, a fresh faced girl met his vision, her query still on pursed lips. "No one in particular.", he answered, turning his back to her and taking a seat back on the bed.

Turning his burning blue gaze back to her, he offered what he could.

"I am Roland Pruitt. I imagine you have some questions for me."

At first, his reaction had elicited nothing from her. He'd answered the door like it was his room, and hadn't seemed any more shifty than your average Sanctuary denizen who liked their privacy. It wasn't like smoking in the Sanctuary was banned. He was freshly-showered, and seemed not to be out-of-place. It was the name that did it.

Roland Pruitt. The name seemed familiar, but she wasn't sure why. Either she'd read it somewhere or heard it somewhere, and it hadn't been important enough for her to remember... but was of note. She played it cool for the moment, dismissing the pursed lips in favor of a mildly inquisitive look.

"I got word from a resident about a potential security breach. Someone who came up through the sewer entrance." Which she was going to seal as soon as she could. "Would you know anything about that?" She asked. She added after a moment. "Have you seen anything strange?"

She didn't cross her arms. They hung casual and relaxed at her sides, ready to move at any second, though she wasn't sure why she was on-guard. Something about his body language gave her a reason not to trust.

Roland had certainly seen women since his self release from custody, but he still found it stimulating to be in the presence of one in close quarters. Especially one who was clearly fit. His eyes gave little quarter in their sweep while his mind chewed the gristle free from her own words.

Resident. Potential security breach. The sewer entrance.

The first inferred she was either an overseer or caretaker of residents, the second reduced it to overseer. Her own knowledge of the entrance aided in the first inference. This was either a member in long standing or someone of importance at the Sanctuary, perhaps even in the Order. Regardless, his gaze eventually settled back on her own. "That was me. So yes, I do know something about it. I've been away for a while and walking through the golden doors might not be the wisest path."

Her own caution and care in her words and posture gave Roland the thought that he might stand as well. Should she be someone of importance, the least he could do would be to speak to her properly. He rose from his seated position and placed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Do you have a name as well?" His eyes floated beyond her stance in an attempt to perceive backup. If she didn't require any for a potential security breach, she might be just his cup of tea.

"Frankly, I was surprised that you weren't Duskmoor, nosing about and sighing." A slim and unpracticed grin opened slightly. They were all friends here, right?

As she stood there, she decided she didn't much like the way he was looking at her. Assessing. And something else. Something less clean. It took far too long for her tastes for his eyes to return to focusing on her own.

And when he answered her questions, that put a end to the idea that she could trust him at the moment.

>>"That was me. So yes, I do know something about it. I've been away for a while and walking through the golden doors might not be the wisest path."

He rose, hands stuffed in pockets. Asked her name. And referenced someone they obviously both knew. All of those things helped trigger a brief memory. She'd read something in Lori's files about a 'Roland'. He'd been with the order for a brief period of time, then vanished. Aside from that tidbit, though, nothing else came to her. She so disliked being caught flatfooted.

"My name is Lenna," She said carefully. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Roland? From the way you speak, it sounds like you're either a wanted man, or a man not wanted 'round these here parts." For a moment, she lapsed into a slight Southern drawl, like one of Michael's cowboy movies. In her mind, she heard the clink of spurs.

Sometimes one could tell when another was not incredibly pleased with them. Posture, words, looks. Roland had no particular emotional reaction to this, though he liked it better when girls were attracted to him. Made sense, really.

"Lenna. A pleasure." While not reaching to kiss any hands, he did make his own gesture by removing his hands from his pockets, primarily to pull and light another cigarette. His hand opened as he waited for the lighter to appear. It did not. Roland seemed to look at his palm in an odd fashion, like a bird examining a thing for its possibility as food. Then reaching in and extracting the lighter, he lit the Dunhill and put it back where it came from.

He had seen this before a few times, though it never had a name. The first thing that came to mind was the hit woman he had met named Tyranny. The girl before him wasn't Tyranny, though he had a different face once himself. "I'm most definitely wanted. Primarily by INTERPOL, though I suspect the NYPD's Mutant division would like to get their hands on me as well. Not to mention some X's, some costumed vigilantes, hitmen, well, you know the drill, right? Duskmoor alone could probably fetch a high price on the bounty circuit. I don't think the Sanctuary keeps too many jaywalkers."

Taking another long draw and keeping his eyes on her, the question came to mind. " You aren't Tyranny in disguise, are you?"

If Roland was good at making observations, she was better (according to her). She didn't miss the way he said 'a pleasure', or the way he drew his cigarette like a Bond character trying at charismatic and casual to impress the Bond chick. Nor did she miss the way he opened his palm, then stared at it almost quizzically for a few beats, before carelessly drawing out his lighter for use, or the way he looked as he played it off as if it had been nothing of note while quietly, the gears turned inside his head. She noted this all without being too obvious about it, or her reactions.

He said his piece, then asked an interesting question. The question was interesting, in fact, because she had met a woman named Tyranny, briefly, though it was nowhere near as interesting as the statements he'd made prior to the query. The Tyranny she'd known had helped her to a hospital when she'd had an allergic reaction at a breakfast place, when that mirror kid had skipped off. She focused on the most interesting elements of the conversation first when she made her reply.

"My, aren't you a busy boy." It wasn't a question. "INTERPOL and the NYPD AND the X-men, to name drop a few. I imagine there's a file on you in Slate's database, too. You seem right up his alley." As someone wholly untrustworthy who could murder him the second his back was turned, to whom he invested far too much trust she finished the thought internally. Her eyes flashed inquisitively and dangerously as she added. "If memory serves, I also saw a file on you here some time back. I'll have to get Lisa to dig it up. No, I am not Tyranny." She finished mildly. "I have better hair."

"My, aren't you a busy boy."

Roland's face turned up at the recognition. The sarcasm was just a chaser to the shot to his ego. That pleasant face quickly went slack and deadpan once Slate was mentioned, however. The fact that this one knew that one turned some alarm dials in the man's mind. Not to 11, mind you. "Slate. You know that little twerp, too? I worked for him, but I suspect you know that. Slate never seemed the type to advertise his presence, so you must be in the fold as well. Welcome." Since pun jabs were allowed, why not?

"I would have killed the little shit, but he did save me from that sweatbox in Colombia. I'm not totally unfair." Roland still was not sure who he was talking to, though he was sure that she had as much info as anyone of high importance might. She wasn't Tyranny, but she surely had something similar going on. "I'm not much of a hair expert, but you do seem more stable. You also seem to have a similar talent to her. I thought those of our kind generally had unique genetic expressions. I've been away a while, though."

Question and answer seemed to be going well, so he pushed further, considering the Lenna's openness thus far. "If you can get Lisa to give you files and have the information that you do, I must guess that you are someone in charge of the Sanctuary and at least Faust's assistant." He let that title sink for a moment, but just like a hook with a bobber attached on the surface, jerked it back for enticement. " Or are you her replacement?"

>>"Slate. You know that little twerp, too? I worked for him, but I suspect you know that. Slate never seemed the type to advertise his presence, so you must be in the fold as well. Welcome." He said.

She sensed the sarcasm and the heat. It wasn't hidden at all. Even a blind and deaf monk probably could have sensed the hostility. She highly approved. As he kept talking, it was a window into his character. One he might not have realized he was opening. She learned some. One thing she learned was that he had an ego he liked stroked. He hadn't much liked her downplaying his importance as a chiseled jaw career criminal. She noted that.

He would have killed Slate if the guy hadn't saved his life. That was a common tale, it seemed. And he didn't know about Adapteds exactly. Didn't know it was as common as it was. Thought she was a mutant.

Roland thought she might be Faust's assistant. He had been away quite the while. She didn't drop her poker face as he talked, even to that. Just let him build up and come to his conclusion. Her replacement.

"Bingo," she said. "You have been gone a while. Would you like to move to my office to talk more? Lisa can get you something to drink, and maybe I can get you some information. Get you up to date on what's happened since you were gone. A lot of things have changed. The Kabal's gone, for one. Or rather, merged with the Order. That idiot Slate gave it up like a naive cheerleader on prom night. If he hadn't, we might have taken the same 'murder him' angle. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot," Flat as it was. Wryly, she added. "The last thing I want you to think about me is that I like Slate."

Old Roland would never have been so forthcoming. Old Roland was a mark, due to his lack of trust. Old Roland was long gone, due to the tyranny of humanity. It was the first time that the Sanctuary felt like its namesake. He listened to her answer, mutually agreeable about Slate and his existence or lack thereof. This one thing they had in common seemed to bridge the gap somewhat. Roland nodded in assent as he stepped past her and into the hallway, cigarette hanging from his lip as he spoke.

"A Jameson straight up would be lovely. I haven't had liquor in.." A few days? Surely not. Maybe that was why he felt like a sweaty chalkboard. "..hmm, well long enough not to recall, so let's fix that." He waited to see where she led him, reflecting that which he had been told. "No more Kabal, huh? Well, I have seen many an organization slip away, though I am glad to see the Order alive and kicking." He waited for Lenna to begin the journey toward an office and the warm love of good whiskey.

"Well, generally my work speaks for itself. I have not received a mission which I have not completed. I enjoy my work, it keeps me busy." Idle hands for Roland generally meant someone wasn't coming home for Christmas. Optimism wasn't a thing that he recognized other than a word in the dictionary. Satisfaction, yes. Perhaps anticipation. Optimism was a paper bag, freshly wet on the bottom.

Whiskey, sure. She'd expected that. "I'm sure Lisa can get you something you'll like," she agreed with a small nod and a smile. "She seems to have a skill for getting what we need. This way."

>>"No more Kabal, huh? Well, I have seen many an organization slip away, though I am glad to see the Order alive and kicking."

As Roland kept talking, Lenna listened and led. Down the halls, and 'round corners, never letting him fall into a blind spot as she moved. Her office wasn't too far off. It wasn't Lori's office. Roach had called dibs on that. The office she'd claimed and fixed up was better. It even sported some classic art. "Yeah," She agreed with him. "The Order is better at moving with the times, and responding to changes." With goals it was far better at working towards accomplishing. But that, they could get into after he'd have a good drink.

He spoke of himself, and his work, though not of his specific skillset. Glancing back at him, she smiled politely. "I'd love to hear more about your skillset, if you feel like sharing. If you've done all you've said, that's impressive." Though being wanted by Interpol also meant he'd been seen at some point, and maybe even caught. Something to avoid, even if he did escape. They reached her office just as she said this, and she opened her door for him.

They hadn't picked the Sanctuary's War Room, with the big round table, but rather her office. There was hardly a need for two people to talk in a room meant for large meetings between Order heads and family. The office was simple and understated. It wasn't too gaudy, but the wood of the desk showed she was both professional and had good taste. It wasn't cheap metal or plastic. There was a wood bookcase with many books, some of which looked well-loved. Some, old. On the walls, there was classic art. Some pieces even looked like they might deserve to be in a museum. No cheap prints, not even of the Mona Lisa. She kept that somewhere safe. Her room. There were comfortable chairs in the room. One was behind the desk, and two sat in front of it, with a final chair in the corner, sitting where it could be fetched it needed at a moment's notice. There was a well-kept miniature bonsai by the bulletproof window, whose blinds were drawn. There were filing cabinets, a phone, and the other various odds and ends you'd expect in an office.

Letting him in, she gestured to a chair, then bent to page Lisa on her phone. She requested Roland's drink of choice, as well as his file, and let her know he was having a meeting with her. Then her eyes shifted back to the man himself.

It was quite a view as the pair walked to her office. Roland found Lenna's purposeful gait and placing amusing. She probably didn't want him out of her sight, a tactic the man was used to being on lockdown. The benefit was the rear view that this gave him of her assets. Fit indeed. "I'm surprised with the merger of Mondragon and Faust that the Order is not more advanced. I mean, perhaps it is, but the Sanctuary looks similar." A few more bouncy steps. "No offense, of course." This boss was as appealing as the old one, probably as deadly. He appreciated the lack of bravado, though.

She got right to the point, which Roland appreciated. Following her into the office, he enjoyed one last bend before she disappeared into the chair, leaving her face as a sorry second. "Well, as a fellow Mondragonite, I can attest to the usual basics of self defense, marksmanship, subterfuge and the like." Taking his own seat, he pulled his Zippo out and placed it on the desk before him, along with his cigarettes. When she requested his file and the Jameson, he added, "And an ashtray." Eyebrows rose slightly in the vague stylings of someone interested in pleasing their superior. So many inconsistencies flourished in that statement.

Pulling a Dunhill, Roland toyed with the cigarette as he continued to speak, noticing the dull absence of the lighter's refusal to come to him. " I am proficient in most weapons. those I am not are fairly instinctual, no?" He rose from the chair and walked over to one of the paintings she had mounted, admiring it as his glances traced from Lenna to the lighter. " My specific skillset is thievery. I am well versed on most stealth devices and security countermeasures. My gift goes hand in hand with that sort of thing." Still nothing with the Zippo, so he stepped farther away to look at the other exhibit.

He seemed to lean into the Degas and examine it closely. His feet shifted to the far edge of the painting. "Is this a real Degas?" Looking over, nothing happened.

Nothing!

It seriously put a skittering irritation under Roland's flesh. He shrugged at the painting. "Hard to tell." Stepping back over, he picked up the lighter from the desk and stepped back toward the painting, the burning tobacco soon calming his nerves. His hands remained sweaty from the stress, however, and the lighter slipped from his hand as he clicked it shut. Like an old reflex, the lighter never hit the ground, returning to his palm before it hit the floor. A smug smirk of satisfaction crossed his features as he blew out a trail of smoke. Eight to ten feet.

"Oh, there's that as well, but I thought I'd wait for the file to arrive. I do hate spoiling surprises."