Tyria shook her phone, staring at it, an expression of disgust and irritation forming.

West gave her a questioning look as he walked around the helicopter platform, looking for a way down.

"A possible patron -- donations!"
she called out in an answer to the unspoken question. The wind whipped away the words almost immediately, but the Magister nodded. A look of disinterest accompanied the nod, and he continued his circuit until he found a ladder.

As far as the eye could see, ocean stretched out in all directions from the abandoned oil rig, and the rusted, dull metal was a stark contrast to the frothy greenish-blue water and empty skies.

An hour of searching turned up little, except for a small collection of teddy bears in a utility locker bearing minute traces of odd resonance. It was obvious that this was simply a waypoint to occlude the intruder's true origin.

"Can we sink it?" West asked the Curator, once both were satisfied that the search was done.

"Not unless you've learned some new tricks,"
she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. She doubted the somber Arrow would respond to the innuendo, but it still amused her.

West shook his head. Whether it was to the question, or humor, was unclear. "Need a Moros... or two."

Tyria replied, so softly she knew the wind would steal her words.

"Want in one hand and shit in the other, James."




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