Instead of anything remotely helpful, or tactful for that matter, Salem started telling Graft how to do his job. That soured the director's good mood “You must not know a great deal about business,” he told Salem. “Maximizing benefit to myself while minimizing cost is its very quintessence.” When Salem suggested blackmail, he crossed a line that one should not cross with Vitaphagas Graft without a willingness to deal with the consequences. Of course, the doll assured him of a lack of sincerity, although Graft doubted the kid ever got serious about anything in the first place. Salem would do whatever it felt like, without regard for things like agreements and allegiance, based on capricious feelings and wants. No doubt the doll entertained delusions of being a puppet master, toying with those around him.

Graft stepped away from the Nightgaunt and raised a hardened nanoflesh claw for emphasis as he began to speak. He found himself cut off, however, by Light. He treated her to an irritated look as she requested more stuff before giving the first real suggestion, which seemed to Graft to be worth what he was paying for it. The deep one then said something else so wholly out of left field that he didn't for a time understand what she meant in the slightest. A sharp mind enjoyed residence in that skull of his, however, and it raced to connect the thoughts. When he realized what Light was saying a few seconds later he gave a heavy, crackling sigh, then a helpless laugh. “Forget your aura,” he chuckled, “Your thought process alone could drive men to insanity. Perhaps I can interest you in a reasonably-priced seminar on biology sometime.”

His humor dried up as he turned his attention to Salem. He knew it wad partially Light's pressure that egged him to stick it to the impertinent mannequin, but he figured the little snot could use a dressing-down anyway. Lenses swapped in over his eyes that gave off a flickering spark, and he spoke in an icy voice. “As for you, if you do not value my cooperation, we can always cut off the production agreement feeding that trash heap you use as a playpen. I wouldn't mind repossessing everything of the Factory's that's in there, either.” As he spoke Graft walked closer, moving without suddenness or malice, until he was close enough to casually pluck the hat off Salem's head. He turned it over in his hands as he continued. “The contract benefits me only with its dissolution, you see. I had thought I was doing you a big favor by keeping it, but if that's not the case, why bother?”

Abruptly Graft put the hat on, switching it for his own beret, then summoned a nanoflesh grenade in his other hand. Peering at its somewhat-reflective surface, he admired himself for a moment before shaking his head. “Wrong color,” he murmured, as an aside. When he took it off he slipped the grenade inside, and a second later it burst in a spray of fibrous, technoorganic meat and rank, mechanical odor. It infested the hat completely, changing its texture to hard and rubbery and its color to a greenish-gray. Graft held it up to the light for a quick examination, found it to his satisfaction, and placed it back on Salem's head. A less-than-gentle pat smushed it down. “In the business world, there are spiders, and there are flies. I pride myself on treating my allies well. But only my allies. Are we clear?”

He deactivated his lenses and stepped away. “Now then. Shortly I'm going to begin R&D. It will include framework for the dolls and some traps that might suit the vault. If you want to keep watching, the first half hour's free, but I will charge by the quarter-hour after that. I imagine you two have duties to attend to anyway. Before that, however...”

With a flourish Graft turned to Papillary. “Please take Miss Tabula to the Production Center. Manufacture a handful of Guards as weak as we can make them, and incite Tabula to fight them. Before anything else, we must determine if she is capable of gaining XP.” Turning to the Nightgaunt, he said, “Hear that? Your name is Tabula. [i]Say it.[/i]”

A Forced Order. One of a Commander's skills, it could extract obedience from weaker underlings, even for things they could normally not do themselves. The woman's meager muscles tensed beneath her gray skin. “Name is Tabula,” she repeated, her voice accented. Were a Sable Lord here, he or she might have identified it as Welsh.

Graft inclined his head. Curious. “[i]Speak when I speak to you. Listen to others and learn how to talk yourself.[/i] My name is Vitaphagas Graft. As of today, I am your boss.”

“Boss,” the Nightgaunt repeated. “Graft am boss.”

“'Is' boss,” the director corrected. “You might say 'Graft is the boss.' But you can think of me as...an older brother, perhaps. Our creator...our 'mother', one could say, is the same. Lady Brushen Penn, the Starlight.” He leaned on his cane, his attention elsewhere. “[i]Cooperate with Papillary to gain experience.[/i] Yes?”

The woman nodded. “Yes.”

She and Papillary left soon after, and Graft bent to his work. All of his ideas from earlier came flooding back, and he began conceptualizing, researching, and developing as fast as his faculties could take him.

The hours of the night seemed to pass by in a blur. Graft never took a moment's rest, constantly putting things together, testing them, tinkering with designs, and requesting more materials delivered. One idea, that of replacing his static deployables with ones attached to living biotech drones, he deemed too revolutionary to sink his teeth into just yet, but just about everything else had at least seen some progress. A few projects stood out above the others. He'd managed to put together working prototypes for Adrenaline and Melatonin Shells, recycling various body parts into mollusk-like creatures that could be thrown down and trusted to fire chemical-rich spikes into targets to amp them up or put them under. An electromagnetic shielding array was successfully stopping light blows and thrown objects, but would need a lot of improvement to see battlefield use. The basis for a long-range terrain imager lay assembled on his table. And yet he'd barely scratched the surface. So much to do, so little time. Fatigue and hunger were starting to nibble him, too.

Of course, he had yet to get started on Rodias' order. By now, however, a privileged few would surely be able to give him the information he needed to begin. Graft pictured in his mind his enigmatic, reserved acquaintance and coworker, and after a moment created an Open Line to Kath Erine.

“Hello. Graft here,” he spoke quietly, in case Kath was somewhere where people might hear. “Doing something for Rodias. I have a question for you.” If she needed, she could get somewhere more private before replying.