[ It's a lie. A trick, some line to get people to fall in. Sharkface can't imagine it being anything else. There were only seven he's met in the entire universe who were good. Eight, maybe, if he counts Connie among them. It's easier to narrow everything into two camps. His people on one side, everyone else on the other. And now they're gone, torn to fucking pieces for Freelancer's private war.

People are monsters. He loses that sometimes, he slips up and forgets, but there's only one way this ends.

Sharkface holds perfectly still. Doesn't snarl out a retort, doesn't clench up his hands. He imagines smashing Washington's head into the ground, watching the armor crack and give, and that helps a little. Gives him something to focus on. ]

Maybe you have.

[ Liar, he thinks, viciously. You fucking liar. ]

There's still somebody here who took you down. Got you on a table and cut into your skull like everyone else. You really think it'll be that easy?

[ Godric's probably the strongest fucker he's ever met, in armor or otherwise. But he's still got an implant like the rest of them. Somebody made that happen. If appealing to power won't work, Sharkface decides to go for brutal pragmatism. There's always an enemy that needs to be eliminated. Strength in numbers. ]