Deckard's head drops against the mattress as he lets out an audible sigh.<span style="color: #bf0040">"I'll say this for Hale: the man knows accommodations."</span><br/><br/>Tyler can't help but agree. The building is an old hotel, refurbished and restored much like the rest of the corporation's buildings. He sits down at a small dining table and takes a cleaning kit out of his backpack, then begins to unload and field strip his weapons. Deckard glances over at Tyler from the bed and smirks.<span style="color: #bf0040">"Suppose you're used to comfy beds."</span><br/><br/>Running a small brush into the barrel of his revolver, Tyler replies,<span style="color: #336666">"You got something to say?"</span><br/><br/>Deckard sits up.<span style="color: #bf0040">"Yeah. Suppose I do. What the hell was that back there?"</span><br/><br/>Focusing on his weapons, Tyler asks,<span style="color: #336666">"What are you talking about?"</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">"I'm talking about how someone who's supposedly retired is suddenly jumping on mercenary work like it's the old days."</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">"Didn't think you'd mind making a little on the side."</span><br/><br/>Deckard shrugs.<span style="color: #bf0040">"I don't. I'm just saying, is all. Civilian life doesn't suit you. You're no more a farmer than I'm a pacifist."</span><br/><br/>Tyler sets the revolver down and lets out a sigh. He's silent, contemplative. But on the inside, he can feel Deckard's words cutting deep. No matter how much he tries to deny it, he finds himself faced with an inescapable truth: he is a man of violence. A gunslinger. A killer. The life he once led is far too accessible; he defaults into rote actions so seamlessly, it's almost as though the last fifteen years had never happened. The guns feel good in his hands. Killing feels as natural as breathing. And despite any desire for revulsion towards this fact, he cannot help but look upon his actions and feel like they are a return to normalcy.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">"Deck, I..."</span><br/><br/>Deckard shakes his head and gestures dismissively.<span style="color: #bf0040">"Save the existential crisis talk, man. I'm just calling 'em as I see 'em. Dibs on first shower."</span><br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>Tyler sighs and wipes the steam from the mirror. Tracing his hand down, he runs his fingers along the dozens of scars that mar his powerful physique: bullet wounds, knife slashes, energy weapon burns. Half of them he had treated himself, leaving thick keloid behind as they healed. Each scar is a visual account of the violence he has known his entire life -- events so numerous and varied, sometimes only the scar of them allows him to remember the exact details.<br/><br/>As he exits the bathroom, Deckard is already snoring in his own bed. Unlike Tyler, he has no such reservations about his violent nature. He had his scars: the burn marks on his arms were particularly prominent. But whatever tumultuous events in his past, Deckard had long since made his peace with them. Or at the very least, made peace with the fact that there was no peace in the world for men like them. And so he snores, and Tyler lies down, gazing up at the ceiling.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>A bang on the door comes at dawn, and Tyler springs up in his bed, his hand instinctively reaching for the 10mm beneath his pillow. At the other bed, Deckard is already lacing up his boots. Groggily, Tyler walks over to the door, weapon in hand, and opens it a crack. A trio of guards stand in the hallway outside. "Sir, Mr. Hale requests your presence in his office."<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">"Give us a minute."</span><br/><br/>Shutting the door behind him, Tyler runs his hand through his hair and sighs. Deckard, who is already alert and ready to go, chuckles to himself and tosses Tyler's jeans at him.<span style="color: #bf0040">"Look alive, partner. We've got work to do."</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>When the pair arrive in Hale's office, Mariel is already there, her arms folded and foot bouncing impatiently. Tyler surmises that she's a woman used to operating on a tight schedule, and the lack of punctuality from hired guns is clearly an irritant. Nevertheless, she wastes no time in launching into her plan the instant the two arrive.