Isaac moved like a man who'd been rehearsing an entrance his whole life - straight-backed, calm, almost annoyingly composed. The doors did not so much open as ripple around him; the automatic sensors blinked, the glass seemed to hesitate, and then he stepped through as if the building itself obliged.

Sven and Takeshi followed, curious as to what their companion was up to.

Inside, the lobby was all gleam and hush: marble that swallowed sound, a carpet so plush it felt criminal underfoot, and a receptionist whose smile strained the moment she saw the three of them. Two security guards straightened at the door, hands drifting to holsters instinctively.

Sven gave a theatrical sigh and rolled his shoulders. "Guess we're doing this again." His grin was bright enough to make the receptionist's knuckles go white.

He blinked and vanished.

One heartbeat, two - then the lobby filled with a muffled thud, thud as Sven reappeared behind the guards. Both men slumped to the floor, unconscious and perfectly still. Sven dusted an invisible speck from his sleeve, rather pleased with the choreography.

"Problem solved."

Isaac didn't bother to look back. "You could've been more gentle."

"I was gentle," Sven said, shrugging as they moved deeper into the cool, perfumed air. "They're still alive."

Takeshi remained a shadow at their heels, blindfold tight, katana quiet against his hip. He walked with the same unhurried patience he'd had in the car - the calm in the storm. His sandals whispered on marble while his breathing stayed steady, as if a raging car chase were only a distant memory to him.

At the front desk, Isaac's voice was low and level. "We need a private jet. The best on your lot. Destination: London."

The receptionist blinked, voice wobbling. "E-excuse me, sir. Who are you?"

"Isaac Fletcher." He said his name like a punctuation mark. "Contact Grunton Airfield in London. Arrange a jet under my name. Immediately."

There was that strange, quiet authority again - the sort that made people obey before they'd fully parsed the command. The woman swallowed, glanced at the two large unconscious figures on the floor, then at Sven's lazy grin and Takeshi's unreadable face. She nodded, fled to make calls, and returned less than a minute later, cheeks flushed.

"Apologies, Mr Fletcher. We will have you airborne as soon as we can. Please, this way to the VIP lounge."

Sven's jaw dropped. They walked. He kept his mouth shut, which was a small miracle.

Inside the lounge - velvet, soft lighting, a tray of fruit that looked like a painting - Isaac sank into an armchair like a man resuming a long-lost habit. He reached for an apple and bit into it. The sound was ordinary and domestic, which made Sven's confusion feel more pointed.

"What was all that?" Sven asked bluntly, because he did not have the patience to dance around it.

Takeshi leaned against the far wall, expression placid beneath the blindfold. Though he remained expressionless, he couldn't help but be curious, just like Sven.

Isaac chewed slowly, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. He'd been sweating in the back of the car - not from fear exactly, but from the precise, hairline terror of phasing an entire car before they crashed while Sven drove like he had a vendetta against traffic. It had worn him thin.

"I arranged travel to London, like I said I would. So just relax," he replied, leaning back into the softness. He emphasised the last two words, 'Just relax', as Sven had done during his joyride.

Sven's hands fluttered. "Just relax? Explain. Won't they ask for passports? Customs? You do remember we're wanted criminals internationally - rogue mutants. We might be somewhat free here in this country, but the Association sends kill squads at the drop of a hat. And do you really expect them to just hand over a jet because you said your name?"

'Especially with Takeshi here,' Sven thought. 'That's not exactly a low-profile travel companion. He's flagged on all Association databases, and his recent duel was reported on about half the televisions around the world. And me - I've got more warrants than I can count.'

As soon as they landed, Sven found it hard to believe they wouldn't find a bunch of the Association's forces waiting for them.

Now that he thought about it, Isaac had only ever been known as the Phaser, and that was rarely linked to his actual identity.

But that didn't change their predicament, especially after the commotion around the city they had caused. Half the city's police were probably out for them - it was only a matter of time before this place was surrounded by angry officers.

Sven leaned forward, eyes scraping Isaac's face. "You realise we could all be carted off, right?"

Isaac's fingers tightened on the apple. He swallowed. Then he smiled - the kind of smile that had teeth and history in it. "Don't worry. Trust me. They won't ask for anything. They'll treat us well until we land, and when we do, we'll be fine. So just relax, we'll be out of here in no time."

Sven scowled. "How does that even make sense? You just gave them your name. Are you some kind of secret, rich and powerful guy?"

Isaac's smile softened into a ghost of something more complicated. "Well. Kind of."

Sven's eyebrows shot up; he stared like a man who'd been offered a map to buried treasure. 'Fletcher… Fletcher…' That name unlocked in the back of his head, like the final piece sliding into place.

"Don't tell me you're from that family?" he blurted, equal parts shock and greed. "The Fletchers? You can't be serious."

Isaac's face changed just a fraction - an almost-invisible inhale, the sort that carried years of small, unpleasant memories. He didn't look glad; far from it. He looked tired, and a little ashamed, as if the name were both a key and a cage.

"I'm not proud of them," he said quietly. "They're… not proud of me either. I left the family, that's why I don't use the name."

Sven, however, was already on his knees, dramatics fully engaged. "But imagine what we could do with their money. The parties! The drinks! The women, Isaac - the women! We could crash state dinners, swim in champagne-"

Isaac laughed, a short, thin sound, but it didn't erase the tightness at the edge of it. He'd avoided this - avoided the family, the old money, the rotten expectations - for a reason. But he had a use for the name now. A convenient lever.

'I guess I had to face them again eventually,' he thought, eyes flicking to the window that showed dusk-dark clouds and an apron of immobile jets. 'Why not use them for a free trip back to London? They'll sort it. The jet money won't bother them. They'll hear the name and pull the same levers they always do.'

But as Isaac prepared to face his past, Sven was looking towards a lucrative future, his thoughts already running wild...

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