The descent into Gwenreen City was a silent, smooth, trajectory that bypassed the commercial flight paths entirely. The jet touched down on the private, high-security hangar roof of the GEM headquarters above the neon skyline. The hangar doors closed above them, sealing out the city noise, replacing it with the low, sterile hum of high-grade atmospheric filters.
Malcolm Ford had finally succumbed to the physical exhaustion and the heavy, stabilizing frequencies Dahmer had piped into the medical berth; his eyes were closed, his breathing deep and irregular, his massive Alpha frame completely still.
