Roland stared into the mirror of his suite at the Hilton Tokyo Bay in Chiba. The woman responsible for the image that stared back at him was truly a genius by all measures. His hands felt the strong jawline and creased over the equally direct brow that now seemed as natural as the day he was born. Though, in hindsight, that was two faces ago.

Normally the clinic which housed the face shaper took cash or offshore account transfer only. The fee was usually exorbitant enough that one would never bother with that amount of paper cash. The weight alone would cause enough problems. Roland had used his Faberge egg as payment. At first, they were skeptical, but once it had been verified as legitimate, they pampered him, even having a healer fix his wounded arm from Rockefeller.

He stepped out onto the balcony of his suite, the nighttime lights of the Prefecture twinkling below. He had successfully left the States, destroyed Miss Quinn's building, injured Mr. King, and now had even changed his appearance. To your average professional, this would call for a good bit of celebration, some vacation time. Roland's idea of vacation meant training. Lots of it.

As the plane taxied the runway at Charles de Gauille in Paris, Roland looked out toward the city's low skyline. As his new reflection gazed back at him through the cabin window, a smile crept over the man's face. It hadn't taken him long to decide to take advantage of his new look. Paris waited for him patiently as a man no doubt polished newly pilfered jewels at his large mahogany desk out there. A man who needed help. Roland was certain of it. The man in question always needed professional assistance.

The world's fifth largest and busiest airport seemed even larger now, though Roland had been in it several times. With a third face in place, there were no reasons to worry. The thought even crossed his mind to allow an eager pickpocket to have a touch. Not that it mattered. The stern eyes were still the originals and they remained focused sharply on an invisible point in the distance. To a casual observer, Roland might look lost in thought or simply mean He was, on both counts, though the intensity on his face heralded a reckoning.

It was as if that mahogany desk and the out of shape fixer behind it were magnets, seeking Roland and drawing him unavoidably. Simple professionalism was the only thing that sent him to a nearby hotel. As the usual business, he had about three false identitites to work with. This time, he would have to keep them close. His source for new identities would be dead tomorrow.

There was only one way to do this, Roland thought to himself. He had put his ear to the proper grapevines to glean what the fixer was doing. As luck and destiny would have it, there was a job underway this very evening. Destiny was good like that. The occupation in question involved jewels. Gershon loved shiny things. His large eyes would often sparkle like the gems themselves as they scanned over facets. The scene was unfolding in a perfect, nostalgic way. It was a diamond wholesaler, so it would be three. One lookout , one handling goods, one driver. Roland dialed up the police, leaving the anonymous tip needed to get the ball rolling.

An archetypal black BMW sat outside the back door of the place. Roland watched from across the street. Looking up a block or so, he could see the tactical team preparing themselves. It was like watching a video of one's past, as he imagined the driver was informing his compatriots. He had waited long enough to allow the cronies to get the job done, as a bust would be useless without the stones. The lookout came first, making his way to the backseat, his little bird-like head twitches fitting for his position. A moment or two more passed, tension mounting in Roland's neck muscles. All was well once the bagman appeared.

The sound of police boots became clear as a bell, forcing Roland further back into the alley's shadows. As long as there was light to see, it made little difference. The driver was gunning the pristine engine, its pistons firing away like a thoroughbred eager to be released from the race gates. The frenetic lookout was the first to act. He was probably a rookie, eager to bust his cherry. Reports of gunfire echoed through the streets, answered with a cacophony of the automatic variety. His cherry was busted, its crimson juices flowing over the back lot of the place. The driver decided that his escape was still viable and tore out of the lot, smoke from the tires clouding the scene briefly, to Roland's annoyance.

A brief reenactment of a battlefield ensued, smoke and gunshots clouding the senses. Once it cleared, it appeared that the BMW was no longer beautiful, its engine smoking and its windshield shattered. The driver left his remains in various parts of said glass. French police, gotta love em. The bagman was just the man now, his bounty placed on top of a police car along with his sidearm. The look on his face was priceless, revealing his fear. Not of the police, but the jail where his employer had problem solvers. Keystone coppery soon took place as the bag of stones mysteriously vanished. One moment they were there, now they were here, in Roland's pocket. Though his French was basic at best, he could pick out the inflammatory words quite easily as he disappeared.

The taxi slowed to the curb in a district that appeared to be the home of the night people. From the looks of them, this was their step into the wild side. They lacked the track marks and scars that real night people might sport. Neon crackled overhead, casting an eerie blue glow down on the sidewalk. Trois Soeurs appeared to be little more than a typical seedy nightclub. A piano player sang something that sounded both morose and beautiful and a veil of cigarette smoke hung in the air. He hadn't entered yet.

Outside of the place stood a large man who seemed to be carved from obsidian. It was one of Gershon's most long-lived employees, a huge East African known only as 'Cheese'. Even the native speakers called him that because when a seven foot man who looked like a living statue said to call him Cheese, it was a good idea to do so. His monolithic frame became a wall once Roland was standing before him. "Members only. Take a walk." Roland smiled wide. "Fair enough, Cheese. Tell the man I have his stones. He can come out here and meet me on the sidewalk if he prefers."

The mention of his name and stones didn't seem to impress Cheese. " Take a walk. You don't know anything." Roland nodded and stepped back toward the curb. Eyeing a storm drain nearby, he produced a cut diamond. Not too large, perhaps a carat or two. He tossed it to Cheese, whose massive hands greedily snapped it up. He seemed impressed now. He took a size seventeen toward Roland, who promptly flashed the insurance policy hanging from his shoulder beneath his jacket." The bigger they are, Cheese. Now go be a good freak of nature and get your boss. Or let me in."

Cheese wasn't so smart after all. Gershon was on the phone when the gunshots echoed through the interior of his midnight speakeasy. He felt no fear, as no stranger was good enough to make it past the three men in front of his door. Anyone who wasn't a stranger surely hadn't the stones to come in full on like this. Besides, the five armed assassins in the room could easily dispatch the fool that was about to cash his own ticket in. There was always....but no, he was long gone.

A familiar face appeared in Gershon's security screen. He depressed the button, allowing entry to his men and the dumbest man alive, He was a strapping bloke, cold shark-like eyes surveying the grim situation before him. " Well, you're a dead man. However, since you made it this far, I'll let you tell your tale." A bag of stones flew from the man's hand, landing on the desk before him, its contents spilling and sparkling before the fat fixer. " The tale's told. Your stones from the botched wholesalers.You're welcome."

Gershon had little to say. The sparkle returned to his eye. His tell, as any card player would call it. The men in the room were no less ready to pull their weapons and gun the man down who was in front of them at their master's word. " Very good. Very,very good. Before you die, I wanted to tell you about another man who tried the same little stunt. It didn't turn out so well for him either. In fact --" The next phase occurred in seconds. Perhaps it was a minute. Regardless, five spent cartridges hit the floor. One for each man.

Roland launched himself up on the desk, crouched on his haunches, his blue eyes burning holes in the man's own. "In fact, you should keep a much closer eye on your Colombian spa handlers, you miserable f***." The barrel pressed firmly into Gershon's forehead, a wider and more shit eating grin was not possible on Roland's face. The gun was for show, though. He could as easily have simply burned a hole in the man's face with his steely eyes of revenge. " Open the vault and you can go with a limp." A coward to a fault, Gershon only opened his personal vault and then stepped away, his eyes wide with shock. "How? You were a dead man." Roland snickered. " Still am. Time to join me in the afterlife."