The Palace looked the same, down to the last stale concrete block. Rowan had often wondered why it was called a "palace." It resembled nothing of a glorious building with beautiful architecture. It was a square concrete building - no grand beautiful architecture adorned its halls. It housed a large training facility for The Watchers. That was it.

The gray pillars and black doors smelled of the sweat, blood, and tears of those who washed out. A lucky few made it to the top ranks after brutally transforming into something that didn't ask too many questions. It made Rowan an anomaly.

He sighed as he followed Dik and his small army of henchmen. Dik hadn't bothered to restrain him. He was now being blocked from sending or receiving any information from the net. He shivered as the door clanged shut behind him with a deadly finality. This had once been home.

The palace for its grand name housed one of the largest burial grounds for washouts on this side of the empire. Their names were not recorded. They simply did not exist and never were. Which made this charade even more interesting. Technically he was a thing that did not exist, a shadow in someone's eye that they couldn't let go of.

His nose wrinkled as he walked down the long hallway. The memories flooded without permission. He inhaled. This meeting was going to be interesting. Someone wouldn't let him go. He was a thing that did not exist, a tool they'd misshapen.

"Love what you've done with the place," Rowan said out loud. "It feels almost lively."

From the back of the line was a snicker that was quickly smothered. So they weren't all completely obedient. Rowan cast a quick look at Dik who rolled his eyes. 

"They don't pay for decorations only order...," Dik recited.

"For the good of the public," Rowan finished. "I fucking remember." And he did. The mantras he'd been forced to recite over and over again until they were part of everyday conversation. He hated them now. 

The doors opened again into an arena. Not just any arena but The Arena, the main practice room, and if they were honest about it, the exhibition. Weaponry stacked to the right, towels to the left, and a raised stage in the middle. Rowan sighed. He was going to give a demonstration or die trying. Who knew who was watching? Given the number of contracts he'd completed over his two-hundred-year run, he could only imagine a full room.

"What's this?"

"The cost of your meeting," Dik said.

"Dick, we talked about this," Rowan snapped. "How many do you want to lose?"

"Hopefully, just one, asshole," Dik snarled as he walked away. His feet kicked up a small amount of dust. Fighting here was normally done barefoot and bare-fisted. 

High up in the far was a black window. They all knew it was there but no one ever really knew who sat inside. The observation for those who chose the best of the best from the doomed recruits. This was where you won your contracts. No other details were necessarily given. Just names, places, no whys or hows. 

Rowan looked up and lifted a middle finger, flashing the box. Politics were politics, he wasn't back for the long term. These guys hopefully would get that soon.

"Cocky bastard," someone muttered from the side. 

The rest of Dik's Watchers fanned out behind him. 

Rowan had mentally counted at least twenty but who knew how many would actually show up. His body tensed but he forced himself to relax as he slowly took off his jacket and glanced around. It was the biggest waste of life he'd seen. He blinked an eye. Recording flashed across his vision. Maybe they'd check out the video later. O

He'd either have something to show on the outside - or The Watcher agency would dissect his brain and figure out where they'd gone wrong. They'd pull his new skin either way. 

He glanced at Dik who lounged against the wall calmly, arms crossed. "You don't have to participate?"

"Nah, I'm here to conduct you through the palace."

"Like I don't know my way."

Dik shrugged.

Rowan's body came alive. The attack came from his left. Synapses fired off and information came rushing in like a maelstrom. Nanoseconds ticked by but it was eons faster than his attackers. The first to rush in was wearing another Nordic model skin, his face eager - red-haired and green-eyed, a rare combination Rowan was almost sorry when his fist connected with the face, smashing the nose in. The specialty-designed skin, one of his own making, acted almost on its own accord, throwing blocks and punches as he noticed them.

He had no time to react as his senses indicated another attack from behind, this time the singing whisper of a spear at his back. He sidestepped to the right his hand gripping the weapon and and twisting. The momentum carried his second attacker forward right into Rowan's knee.

The sternum cracked. He went down with a pitiful "Uhnnn." Rowan barely heard the final gasp as he was set on by the next attacker.

This one attacked with fists flying, his study of wing chun obvious. For half a second Rowan focused entirely on the tall man, but his 200-year advantage was obvious and after studying the man's cycle, he detected a weakness in his shoulder and went for it. Bones crunched.

Deep in Rowan's mind space, he was smiling, completely in his element. Like he'd never left The Watchers in the first place.

--------------------------------------

Dana Margrove sat in the spectator box. She leaned back a smile plastered on her face, long lean legs crossed, one hand fidgeting with her long brown hair braided into a single line strung over her shoulder and down her chest. The impeccable businesswoman. Her new pacific islander skin itched. She'd not fully adjusted to it yet. It was much taller than her previous, and the physical strength was unmatched by anything she'd gotten her hands on before. She enjoyed the coy looks sent her way as she moved through The Palace. But she'd had to adjust on the fly once they'd announced Rowan Stevescant was coming in. In the past, she'd be standing at that window. Today she'd ordered a chair. No need to demonstrate that she was still in the middle of skin adjustment with a healthy dose of vertigo to go with the unfamiliar body. 

She was Queen here. They would never know she was the top of the line, the last shop between them and the ones who bought their services. Very few did. She did well to maintain a standard of mystique. 

The spectacle in front of her had more than satisfied her blood lust. Damn, he was good. Too good. The political elites who paid for their services wanted the best. Unfortunately for Rowan that meant him whether he liked it or not.

She blinked pulling up his profile again, closing her eyes as she focused on the text. Five years out was long enough for him to newly design a specific skin for himself. She'd have it pulled and studied to see what tech he'd infused into it. Along with his battle prowess, he was highly inventive when it came to dealing death and staying alive. His file said he studied his enemy sometimes for months before dealing with a target. His start had been rough but his delivery before he'd left had become flawless. There was still a pile of stacks from his jobs - one that hadn't been matched by any student past, present, and she suspected future.

And yet he'd been foolish and found himself a weakness.

Part of her wondered if he'd done it on purpose. Almost a challenge - a middle finger, similar to the one he'd just sent her way earlier. Life with Miranda couldn't have been that satisfactory to him. Surely he'd been bored.

Dana uncrossed her legs and leaned forward again to study the man. She was watching men die out of simple curiosity. How long will he last? The body count was thirty at least. Wasteful.

Blood soaked the arena floor.

She saw Rowan's former partner twitch uneasily from the side. Dik was a good soldier and hadn't moved. She was tempted to send him in there as well. A fight to the death, between two former partners? That would be almost entertaining. Almost.

And still, Rowan was there, almost elegant in the way he moved. Like a dance, completely controlled. A vicar of death. The perfect assassin.

She held up her hand and the assistant made a phone call. There was no point in wasting all of the graduating class's new students, she supposed.

"Have a collection team brought in," Dana said, never taking her eyes off Rowan Stevescant. "I want those students reset in new skins by midnight."

"Yes, Mistress Margrave," the assistant said and turned back to the phone.

"And Tony," she said. "Get Rowan cleaned up. I know him, he will want to look good for Miranda."

(1500)