"Power-plays, ghost-light, deals with Black-Phi. I swear, where has Lenisker's sense of purpose gone these past years? You think that your father will be pleased to see what you've done in his name?"
The half-forgot Brantley shakes his head, pointing the corroded barrel straight into the mutant's face. His own face.
"My real question: you think a few contracts entitles you to my face, to be used whenever it suits you?"
Red.
"This is your warning. There are no deals, no negotiations, no contracts. If you're looking for the Old Man, you go north; if you're looking for D-VI connects, you go to the fucking beach. I am not your Dr. B., and I am not yours."
Bloody red hand. Wrathful.
"Next time I am invoked, the Corps will not survive for their trouble."
The mutant nods rapidly, meek hands clasped together in shaking prayer.
"Get your own fucking face."
The blast. High-concentrate sulphuric acid. One pelt.
"Our Mr. Brantley is a man of many minds," Dr. B. notes, looking into the scarred face of the creature, if one were generous enough to call it a face. "Bandage it up, see if you can find something to repair the damage."
"Who do we hire to go after him?"
"Which?"
"The one that blew your man half to hell."
"No one. There's nothing worse than self-destruction—"
Dr. B.'s attention suddenly shifts. He points directly to one of the monitors, sifting through signal channels.
Black.
"Terminate all pending assignments. Cancel all contracts. Recall everyone."
Dr. B. walks out before the Lenisker agents on site can reply.