((ooc: Continued for Hunter from Message Received, and for Slate from The Return of an Old Face.))

Mondragon Labs Medical owned all the buildings and grounds for nearly two miles in all directions. Two years ago, the research complex had sprawled from its center outwards, into a warren of store houses, barracks for guards and soldiers hidden amongst them.

With the last spring had come the remodeling; the renovations, and the outright removal of elements that the new CEO deemed less than favorable. For nearly two miles in all directions, warehouses had been torn down and concrete torn up. For someone who hadn’t visited since before that time, Mondragon Labs would be almost completely unrecognizable. Walking trails wound between buildings; men and women were out in the spring sunlight, going about their business. A group of four sat at a picnic bench just off the main drive, having lunch. If not for the white lab coat worn casually by one of the men, or the black uniforms and guns worn just as casually by his companions, this could have been any residential community. If not for the high chain link fence that still marked the perimeter, or the strategic positioning of the buildings; tall apartment complexes in the midst of lower houses; open grounds and narrow approaches, designed to favor a defender. If not for the shuttered flood lights, pointed both outwards and in, or the place where the road lead to.

This was the first year that the apple trees where in bloom. At the center of it all, the main labs complex looked much like it had before, a bit of airy foyer remodeling aside. The white halls still followed their labyrinthine paths, confounding any visitor—invited or otherwise—who was not intimately familiar with their layout.

Hunter Antonescu would not get that far.

“Passing the main gate,” one of the guards at the picnic table said casually into the small headset all of them wore. “You’d better get inside, Kolberg.”

“It would just look suspicious if I left now,” the scientist amongst the three said. He didn’t glance over his shoulder; they’d already seen who was coming, when the cab pulled up to the out gate. The guard there had waved the man inside, and shut the gate after him. “It was a good lunch, fellows. Thanks.”

On one of those tall roof tops, Percy lay flat, his gun barrel tucked out between the ornamental scalloping. He worked to still his breathing after the quick run up the stairs. He’d been off duty, and on his way to a certain weekly meeting, when Noin Mortman had sent the call out. His antique sword was set on the roof beside him, holding down the cape he’d cast aside. The man’s head entered his sights.

“Steady,” Nigel’s voice came through his head set. “Our employer wishes to speak with him, first.”

The Paladin heard a snort through his headset, coming from another rooftop. “And after?” Charles asked.

“After is after. We wait on the boss.”

Slate Swartz was waiting for the approaching man, half way up the Labs driveway. He stood in an open courtyard, next to a small fountain. His dress shirt was neatly pressed; his hands clasped behind his back. He stood alone, and unthreatening.

“Mr. Antonescu,” he stated, when the man had arrived. “You’ve returned.”

The Kabal’s leader had no need for headsets.

He does not leave without my word. And remember, please, the teenager said, so the immortal was unlikely to overhear, if you must shoot through me to get him, please attempt to avoid head shots.

Or rocket launchers, he added, not glancing at the jeep parked a block away. Frank Newton may or may not have stopped digging in the back seat. Next to him, Nicholas definitely sniggered. Or flame throwers.

Nicholas stopped laughing.

Calley had certainly changed things in his absence. The labs were no longer a menacing fortress and instead looked like a charming little research park. At least it did if you didn’t have an eye for defendable positions. While the place looked a lot softer it was still a fortress. Just a cuddly one. Now that would appeal to the Calley he knew without costing Slate the functionality he would like.

Hunter was well aware that he would be well covered by lab security and that if they were anything like the security they had when he was in charge then he wasn’t walking out of this without Calley’s say so. Even with his powers it was unlikely that he’d be able to leave unless allowed to. He couldn’t see any security measures but that didn’t mean that there weren’t at least three snipers covering him and a tactical unit or two mere seconds away.

But none of that mattered. He wasn’t here about the labs. The reason he was here was waiting for him. Calley stood there with his hands behind his back in a relaxed but professional stance. When he got close enough Calley acknowledged his return. It was clear that Slate was currently at the helm. Calley wouldn’t be able to stand still that long, not unless there had been a drastic change.

Slate must have found a way to some to the surface with more ease than in the past. Hunter remembered the training session where he’d broken Calley’s arm to allow Slate to assume control. That was just one of many things that Hunter needed to apologise to the boy for. He assumed that it was Slate who oversaw the day to day running of the labs. After all Calley struggled to organise his own thoughts.

“Slate,” he said with a nod of his head, “I’m here to talk to Calley.” While Slate might have grievances with him Hunter was sure that Ellie’s death was the work of Calley. That boy had more reason to hate him than almost anyone else on the planet. Hunter wasn’t even sure if Slate could hate. Whatever issues that Slate had with him would have to wait. The current and most pressing issue was Calley. No one else would die. Not because of him.

Hunter Antonescu, former owner of all his eyes could see. The Labs, the Kabal; aspirant to own the world itself. After nearly two years of complete silence, he’d returned.

He’d returned, and all he did was ask for Calley.

Slate took a moment to ponder the emotion this caused. He had taken over the Kabal. Not simply because there was a power vacuum—because he himself had the power to take the position. He did not just rule the Labs because Hunter was absent; he ruled the Labs because all of its employees were now loyal to him. They worked for him now. So did a good portion of South America. So did the majority of the Romanian government. Hunter’s home country, if he was not mistaken. He was twenty going on three, and a tousle-haired young man, but he was one of the most powerful single individuals in the world.

Hunter was not here to see him. Hunter did not even seem to care about the Labs, the Kabal, or the new order of things. All he cared about was speaking with Calley.

Slighted, Slate decided. Yes. He felt slighted. It did not show on his face.

“I see,” he replied levelly. “And why is that?”

Was Slate trying to play some sort of game? He knew full well why Hunter was here. Slate would have seen through Calley’s eyes as the boy murdered Ellie. He would have known that Calley had left a message for him at Spiritual Balance. Why was Slate playing dumb? Had Calley and Slate found a way to fully partition themselves from one another? Did they no longer see what the other did?

If that was the case was Calley hiding behind Slate? Hunter didn’t know what was going on but he needed answers. However he wasn’t in a position to be demanding anything. So instead he decided to ask a pertinent question. “Are you aware of what Calley did this weekend?” He didn’t know exactly when Calley had done it but Ellie left work Friday evening and he received the message Monday morning. Calley must have found her at some point over the course of the weekend.

Could Slate really not know? Hunter just found that so very hard to believe. The two of them were different personalities in the same mind but had always been fully aware of what the other was doing. While it was possible that they’d managed to separate themselves from one another in their mind it seemed unlikely. So just what was going on?

Again, the immortal inquired after Calley. That choice—that question, prioritized above all others—was intriguing. He did not ask about the Labs, the Kabal, or the seizure of numerous foreign holdings. He did not even ask about Calley in general: about Calley, the so-called dominate personality the last Hunter had known them. Slate had originally assumed that was the man’s motivation: because it was Calley, the ‘real’ Caleb Swartz, that he wished to speak to about the changes around here; because Slate was not good enough for him.

Instead, the inquiry was quite specific. Calley’s weekend. Slate was suddenly curious about that topic, as well.

His expression remained level. “I no longer concern myself with watching Calley’s every move.” Not since he had gained his own body, that is. “May I take a message?”

His voice was polite, and—he evaluated—just a touch sarcastic. He liked that; it was a subtle flavor that truly added extra meaning to his monotone words. He would have to practice such variations more often.

So they were separate somehow. If Slate was no longer watching Calley’s every move then they must have partitioned their mind somehow. He was offering to take a message, though there appeared to be a hint of sarcasm in his voice. That was a change, one Hunter approved of. Slate was starting to learn the subtleties of social interaction by using more than a monotone.

“Can you just let Calley come forward,” he asked, “I can’t let him keeping doing this. This has to end.” Hunter was not going to let Calley hurt anyone else because of him. He didn’t know why Slate was keeping Calley suppressed but he needed to talk to him. While his request might annoy Slate he had to resolve this sooner rather than later.

>> “Can you just let Calley come forward, I can’t let him keeping doing this. This has to end.”

His request did not annoy Slate. Annoyance was an undignified thing, best left to children. Slate was clearly not annoyed. Irked, yes. Perhaps slightly vexed, or even peeved. He was not, however, annoyed. That would be undignified.

“Mr. Antonescu,” Slate stated, his voice carrying a self-confident authority he’d had much chance to practice over the past two years, “please state you business here, clearly, concisely, and quickly. There is only so long I shall refrain from ordering you shot.”

It is not wise to test the patience of a miffed three year old.

Slate clearly had no idea what he was talking about. The threat of being shot was almost certainly a serious one. After all when he was running the labs the security staff was comparable to a private army. This place was harder to bust into then fort Knox and he doubted Slate would have relaxed the security much. Time to get right to the point.

“At some point over the weekend Calley murdered the girl who worked for me,” Hunter explained, “He left me a note in her handbag explaining that it was my fault she was dead. If Calley wants revenge he can take it out on me. No one else is going to die because of me. That’s why I need to speak to him.”

One eyebrow quirked upwards in reply to that; it was not accompanied by any particular sympathy, or false condolences. Of all people, Slate was well aware of the sorts that Hunter hired. They made excellent employees, in a business of dubious morality. It was surprising, however, that Calley had dirtied his hands: he’d been so... unreasonable back when Slate had simply been purging the Labs of those he could not use. Perhaps his brother was finally coming around.

“I see.” The brown haired young man stated. “So you came seeking Calley, so he might... ‘take it out’ on you. Very noble.”

Very inconsistent.

Be on your guard, Slate warned. Something is wrong here. Make sure the outer perimeters remain secure.

As a distraction tactic, Hunter’s post-mortem chivalry was simply too out of character to succeed. Really, Slate had expected better of the immortal.

“To what do we owe this change in character?” Slate humored the man.

Slate didn’t believe him. What a surprise. No one believed him and honestly he couldn’t blame them. He could barely believe it himself. Two years ago he had been the world’s greatest mass murderer. He’d killed more people than most got to meet in their lifetime. Killing was so much a part of him that he wasn’t sure he’d truly left it behind.

“Time to evaluate my life,” Hunter answered. He wasn’t sure he could explain it in a way that Slate could understand. In fact he wasn’t entirely sure he understood it himself. “So are you going to let Calley talk to me or let him go on killing people to get back at me?”

“Evaluating,” Slate repeated. “I see.”

The man looked the same as always. As well dressed; as untouched by time. A new hair cut changed nothing; nor did words. They were not even ‘pretty’ words; pretty, according to Slate’s studies of colloquial expressions, implied eloquence. Hunter’s own studies had clearly been done on redemption films staring B-rated actors. They were too raw to possibly be real.

“Allow me to summarize my understanding,” Slate said. “You are over four hundred years old. You have ripped out the hearts of children with your bare hands. Now you have... evaluated things.”

“And the results of this evaluation were...?” The blue-eyed young man’s mouth quirked at the edges. It was an expression indicating humor. He thought it was appropriate.

Hunter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “The resulting conclusion was that I’m a monster,” he said bitterly, “And that it was eating away at my soul. If I want to try and save anything that might be left of it I need to try and make amends. I have no idea if that is possible or if there’s anything left of my soul to save but I have to try.”

He opened his eyes and started right into Slate’s, shining silver meeting baby blue. There was nothing more he could tell the boy. No eloquent speech he could make, no detailed explanation. He’d told Slate how it was. Whether the boy believed him or not was up to him. Truthfully right now Hunter didn’t care whether Slate believed him or not. Right now he cared about was finding Calley before he hurt anyone else.

There were appropriate reactions to that proclamation, Slate was certain. It was likely that laughter was not one of them. Perhaps he would confer on the matter with Susan, later.

In any case, it was only a short laugh.

“My sincerest congratulations, Hunter Antonescu. You have taken four centuries to learn what any toddler could have told you.”

It was in that moment that Slate realized something: he did not like this man anymore now than he had two years ago. His memories did not have to be entirely complete on the subject for the distaste to linger. The year under Antonescu had been... formative.

“Leave. I will decide on your way out whether I believe you. You will know if I do.” The man would be able to walk out the front gates again, if Slate did. If not... well. What a shame that would be. “As I have told you, I am not my brother’s keeper. He is not here; I do not know where he is, and I will not be your messenger boy. I have a business to run.”

“Good day, Mr. Antonescu.”

Laughter. Well he supposed the idea of Hunter Antonescu turning from a life of violence was laughable from a certain standpoint. Slate’s words cut deep. Children learned morality faster than he did. While there were several reasons that Hunter had become a killer they would just sound hollow if he tried to recount any of them now. Instead he held his tongue.

How the table’s had turned. Now it was Slate deciding whether he got to live or die instead of the other way around. For now he was being allowed to leave. In the coming days he’d either receive a message or an attack depending on how Slate felt. Apparently Calley wasn’t here anyway.

What?

Calley wasn’t here?

But... how?

Ourboros. Calley’s final move in their fight. He’d split into over a hundred different animals. They’d found a way for Calley and Slate to permanently separate. That meant all he’d managed to do by coming here was piss off Slate unnecessarily. It also meant that he had no lead on Calley, a boy who could be any animal in the city of New York.

With a nod of respect to Slate Hunter turned and left. While he was curious about how things were going at the labs he once ran he had more pressing matters. How the hell was he going to find Calley? One thing was for certain, he needed to put everything on hold until he’d resolved things. Most of his clients he’d only met once, so that wouldn’t be enough of a connection for Calley to target them. Meld was living with him now and an obvious next target. He’d need to warn her but he was confident she could take care of herself. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.