Count Bannen, although to everyone but his closest confidants Count 'Jericho', read over his new message on his small, phone-like PDA. Aloud, although quietly and alone, "..You are asked... Benjamin Tops, traitor.... hat, black and white blazer, plaid, tan jeans... One million credits... Sphinx related, trades brains." This seemed a bit conspicuous as a job. A million credits for a dirty businessman? Whatever the perp's story was, he was seemingly wanted dead, so any sins he committed would be laid to rest before the day's end.

	Jericho put his phone into a zippable pocket and closed it, much like he did with his actual tools. He's learned that if it's even remotely possible, a target will try to disarm him or get someone to disarm an important implement from him before Jericho actually managed to find the target. On one occasion, him paying no heed to the peasantry around him had dire consequences; he has his two fists to thank for surviving that incident. Anything to make it harder always helps.

	He checked his self while walking, making sure to take the least crowded route possible. He was going to start at the area around the hotel to scan it out first. Going in with no pre-planned strategy was suicide with this sort of mark, they almost always had goons or something. Occasionally, even simple and stupid security bots. Easy to out think, but goddamn, they don't stop firing if need be.

	Tops was gigantic, at least by his relatively spartan standards for a man of blueblood. A hotel and a bar... those even existed? 'Thought those were a joke. Get drunk and crash in the same building? Fucking [i]decadent[/i]...' The Count popped in a standard kinetic block into his firearm, no 'fancy shit' and got the job done against non-hard targets, just how he liked it. He didn't move in just yet, lurking in the shadows and laying low for now.

	Just as he thought, the place was guarded impressively heavily. At least six armed were outside, and he wasn't sure about inside. Noting their suited aesthetic, a plan started forming in his head. Until that bore fruit, he decided to check on his 'Black Knight', his home that prowled through the stars and served him faithfully. Tops was near the hangar, so it seemed only fair. Needed to check on a few things anyway; see if those dumb shit engineers at Vegas re-calibrated the thrust vectoring correctly and other such ultimately trivial things. As he kept on saying himself, if not in the exact words, 'every little bit helps'.

	When he returned to the hangar that contained his spacecraft, he saw that others were ordered on approach to use the same one, apparently. Well, that's interesting. When he come closer, he heard the sounds of scuffling and mumbling, although he couldn't see due to the angle he was coming in at. Why was a fight happening so close to his precious...? That, was one of the few things that got him honestly a bit mad.

[color=ed1c24]"-Organic lifeform, what is your classification. Rephrase: What is your name.-"[/color]

The Count gripped his gun by the barrel and pistol-whipped the door as he came into the hangar proper- [b]BWAAANG[/b]. "[i][b]I[/b][/i] am Count 'Jericho', What is the meaning of this? Who the devil allowed such insolence to occur in even the same room as my own property!? Fighting in a hangar too, how thuggish and rude." The man spoke angrily, and with intense disappointed authority. "This is on the same level as hitting your own wife in public, despicably uncouth... I hope the two of you can explain to me-", the man made sure they know who he was, "-COUNT Jericho, why you thought emulating barbaric gladiators in a high-class station such as this was a good idea of considerable magnitude."

He'd never admit it, but acting all noble and haughty was fun. Thank god his mask was on, he was enjoying himself far too much. Of course, he was still very pissed.