Argan laughed at the man's words, amused. It appeared his mission had been successful. Who in the hells would have guessed? And he fully appreciated the mans feelings on the subject. The fact that the Baron wanted it was enough reason to keep it away from the bastard. As the cart approached the gate, Argan tensed up, firing himself off the cart like a bow from an arrow, not even waiting for it to stop all the way. Every second they stood still was another chance for the Hands to regroup. What the hell was the Baron thinking, expanding the organization this far? It was supposed to secret, covert. But he could he keep it secret now.

Thoughts for another time and place.

Argan forced himself to slow down as he reached the levers, quickly discerning the proper method to open the gate. Speed was good, but so was accuracy. A Hand never traded one for the other without waying to pros and cons of it. The moment the Gate began opening, Argan was in motion again. He had didn't stop to let himself consider the foolishness of what he was about to do, leaping up into the Cart, and going into a roll, absorbing the blow best he could before flattening himself. Argan rested as he saw the gates pass by, not quite believing he was alive. He shouldn't be. Luck had favored him tonight, something that was never wise to count on.

But I won't turn down the help, no matter its source.

Argan sighed, pushing himself up into a sitting position, feeling tiredness wash over him, the Adrenaline slowly abating. Then Martin made his revelation, his own eyes meeting the mans. Argan made no motion, blinking once. Argan could kill him from here. Martin was good, but he wasn't moving. From this Range, an unmoving target would be easy to hit. But he didn't. Argan showed no anger, no rage. Just curiosity. If Martin had betrayed him, there was nothing that could be done. Argan would kill him, but not out of anger. He listened as the man spoke, his eyes widening in shock.

Memories. What is it with them tonight?

The wash of memories came over him. Childhood, what did that mean to him? Was he still a child when he trained endlessly to kill people with Knvies and his hands. When he watched his only family beaten and broken, again and again. Watching her come to hate him, and knowing that she was right to? No, that wasn't childhood. The night it ended? The scene played over again in his mind. He could remember that night so clearly. But he went back further. Past those crystal clear memories, pain and horror. He had been a happy child once, he thought. Why he couldn't remember that? Dreams of that time would have been much nicer then memories of slaughtered families, dying mothers, and his Sister's eyes, judging him and rightly the condemning as what he was. Flashes, pieces. His fathers voice, congratulating him on his growing skill with a blade. His mother telling him a story. He knew the sound of her voice, but the words themselves escaped him. More then anything, a suffusion of happiness, of security. Of a confidence in a world that was unbreakable, that his father and mother could protect him from the dangers, and teach him to protect himself. Yet, there was another face there, showing up. Someone he knew, someone who should be there. Green eyes, a whole face, but still...

...it couldn't be.

Shock still showed in Argan's face.

"...Martin? ...how?"

Argan's voice was soft. His mind wheeled, almost not believing. A trick. His memory creating it. Or a manipulation on the part of the Baron. Yet another of his games. But...