It had been a bit of a journey from Kansas to California, the circumstances incredibly odd, even for factions as polar opposite as the Rogues and the Order, even more so for Hayes and Hemlocke, who have been on each other's bad side, or right at each other's throats for quite some time now. The two had agreed to sit down on neutral ground. In practice, to put their status as enemies on ice for the time being. Hemlocke's real purpose for offering a drink was as unknown as Hayes' reason for accepting the proposal.

Four hours past midnight, a werewolf with quite a few more scratches and scorch marks than when it had met with Empress in Kansas arrived in the main hanger of Fontana, the rails of its weaponry still sparking with streaks of ruby energy, spitting back and forth between the coils like energetic strands of bouncing light as if the abomination had just come out of a brawl. The hessian engineering spewed out the rear of the vessel, shining a crimson light over the walls behind the Werewolf as it landed on the grav-lock of the deck. The deep growl of its massive core falling to a light hum as the vessel powered off, and eventually total silence as the energy within finally died off and the weaponry slept.

Hemlocke dropped down out the bottom of the werewolf through a hatch, presumably off a ladder, landing on all fours somewhat gracefully to distribute the weight, before coming to a stand, brushing himself off. The man looked a bit different than one would expect from a rogue, long, wild and unkempt dark brown hair that fell over the left side of his face and his shoulders, doing little to hide the cascading crimson light that pierced through it from his left cybernetic. The face that could be seen was shaven, with a hazel eye that had yellow lines rounding the pupil like the spokes of an unfinished wheel, an odd mutation in pigment.

Wearing a simple black short sleeve-T tucked into a brown blood splotched belt, black pants followed by black boots. He had two curved blades hanging off his left hip, and an odd revolver-esque weapon on his right. His eyes cast over the hanger in attempt to locate an obviously out of place Bastet, or a woman that blended in a little -too well- with the crowd, which he would deem an Order agent.

The man's eyes turned toward Cassandra as she approached him, his eye taking on an inquisitive nature as he poured over everything she did, the raised hand, her stride, her choice of attire, the weapon, before his eyes finally found their way back to her face, studying the woman. The closer she got, the more clear it became that physically, there was something wrong the picture.

The T-shirt he wore did little to hide the scarring of his arms, most of which looked as if they should lave left his arms mangled and disfigured, at least more than they were. His hands flexed a bit as he stretched his arms from the landing, before returning to his sides. From hand nearly to elbow on either arm, there were a plethora of scars, scars he once deemed fit to hide but no longer cared for, bullet craters, gashes and cuts, both deep and shallow, burns and tears. All of which had seemed to heal incredibly well, leaving behind only thick scar tissue that likely didn't do much to protect him from further injury.

The voice that emerged from the rogue came over as dark and calm, smooth, like ice. Deeper in tone than might've been expected.

"Never was one for subtlety."