“They say that’s the true final order the last God King ever gave.” The man informs as he notices the gaze of the old Judge. “Burn that upon the wall, so that the gods may forever preserve the Empire’s existence.”

“Obviously it was the most influential.” Judge Murphy nods in agreement. “Some Judges believe that this symbol is representative of something greater than that of the old Empire.”

Greyson takes another drink from his glass, a formulation of an appropriate answer taking four seconds. “It’s an easy enough symbol to draw. All you need to do really is look up at night and make a circle in the middle of the suns. Gods, even the Savior’s Temple Cult uses it.”

A full stop to the investigation.

“That does have an implication.” The Judge begins to make connections, bodies of neurons converging in a spark of insight.

Greyson interrupts hurriedly. “What do you mean sir?”

“Savior’s Temple is naturally part of the pro-imp…”

Heavy footsteps reach out from the halls, an ascending staircase from the end of the ballroom revealing a single, overweight body.

Well dressed in a black suit, the simplicity of the formal fashion hiding within a true cost and purpose. Trained eyes spot brass cloth, woven carbon fiber plating absorbing a barely visible amount of light beneath the layer of white silk. A bulletproofing measure almost invisible to the naked eye, the prohibitively expensive protection discarding the tradeoffs between subtlety and defensive measures.

Buttons stretched slightly from obesity, the fat edges of the older gentleman bringing an air of excess, and authority. A wide, disturbing face stretched from held smiles. The killer demeanor hidden beneath a wide angled gaze, undetectable with the exception of one.

Greyson lowers his voice, taking a step graciously away from Judge Murphy. “It’s Governor Newark. Try not to make any sudden movements sir.”

A clearing of his throat, attention gathered from the near hundred guests within the room as whispers subside. Voice smooth and charismatic, of a handsome face lost to decadence and age. “Ladies and Gentlemen of March, thank you for coming this evening! I hope you are all enjoying this wonderful gathering, in honor of one of our most honorable guests here in the City right now.”

Scuffed body armor and a full arsenal of weapons beneath a head of thin, silvery hair, Judge John Murphy is immediately picked out from the smattering of guests. Gazes meet between Judge and Governor, a target found.

A glass full of half-spilling whisky, raised outward towards the old man. “Please welcome Judge John Murphy to MARCH!”

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Too many eyes on one, hundreds of sniper scopes placed upon his head. The Judge’s senses raise nerves on his neck, a body instinctively moving towards a shooting position. Left hand lifted slightly towards the concealed weapon holstered on his waist, right hand moving towards the string of utility grenades strapped to his belt.

A subtle hostility detected within the Governor, his continued words spoken with immense charisma. “A toast! To Order, To Law, to Peace under Father Mar himself!”

A near impossible expression found on the face of Judge Shawn Greyson, a meaningless boredom betraying an analysis of the threat at hand.

The old Judge stands straighter, social normality derived from dozens of events done prior. A raised glass, the crystal reflecting light from dying suns and human bulbs. Words spoken to a riot, strength from a clarity of purpose and unyielding adherence. “To the future of March!”

The gathering of guests speak at once, a choir of voices matching together on a road to annihilation. “Here, here!”

Judge Murphy refuses the drink, watching as all drown themselves in high proof whisky.

The crowd parts as the Governor makes a path towards the singled out guest, the smile upon his fat face disconcerting in creation.

He was much shorter up close, the Judge and his toned form nearly a head higher than the middle-aged man.

Governor Newark speaks, words silvered against the form of justice. “Judge Murphy, it is my honor to welcome you to our beautiful city.”

With a cold unfound charisma the Judge answers him. “The honor is mine.”

The fat man laughs. “When I first received word that the Elysian Butcher himself was coming to March I was shocked! But I suppose the President knows best, doesn’t she?”

A bullet of words fired, Judge John Murphy’s formulation of an answer taken in stride. “It was a request by the Department of Justice that I come to March.”

Not a single moment is wasted, a conversation planned within a mind stewed in the infinite complexities of municipal politics. “Well, whoever sent you here doesn't change anything. Please, enjoy yourself this evening and your time in March. And if you need anything from me, just ask.”

A smug superiority crosses the lips of the fat form, a rudeness maintained as the Judge towers over him with a growled answer. “Thank you Governor, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Turning away from the icon of law the man pauses as his gaze meets with the younger Judge. Understanding transferred, the fat shape disappears into the crowd.

They all return to socialization, a gaze watching as he glides with another group of social elite. Smiles upon faces, warfare among the highest levels of society.

“Nice job sir.” Greyson speaks up as he steps back into Murphy’s circle. “You handled him well, given the circumstances.”

“Forty-two years as a Judge, you learn some things.” The old man answers as he takes a deep breath, a stance lowered as the crowd returns to their usual conversations.

“Well, the night’s just starting.” Greyson turns around, a small line of socialites slowly approaching behind him. “And I get the feeling you’re going to be a popular attraction.”

Cruelties hidden beneath words bathed in honey, a strata of March nicely isolated from the realities of a dying world. The scent of whisky beneath breaths, of smiles hiding cruelties unimaginable.

The blurring of faces together in the exchanges of formalities, wasted words faltering in conversations immediately forgotten.

A drunkenness reaching an apex within the gathering, the Judge maneuvering himself away from prying eyes and into one of the doors of the ballroom.

Away from it all.