A laugh sticks in his dry throat as he leans over to look at their desperate brainchild, his body dangerously close to the light of the Loom. Naturally, he turns his back to the light, crosses his legs and waits, one hand in his pocket. The likelihood of being tracked through his own personal teleport has always been a part of his calculations, ever since he’d stood with Dallyrasse at the fall of Qqaba, one of the last population III stars. It was one of the last of its kind, a class of stars so massively powerful they were thought to have provided the fuel to build universes. Olmeghidora had apparently not been lucky enough to walk away from the resultant implosion, according to Dallyrasse. But Dallyrasse, no, Rassilon, just as the legends would say, in time, had sent Omega to his death, in asking him to undertake the mission to fly into the core of Qqaba and collapse it while failing to relay the fact he could not survive. Strange how an engineer as capable as Omega could have missed that bit.
Only a moron would have missed that he’d be Rassilon’s next sacrifice to the cause, another unknowing martyr. And he, being the Other, would play Redstone. There is always a way. As guards with guns crowd at both sides of the bridge overlooking the Loom, he raises a hand and tips an imaginary hat to them, then falls back over the side as though taking a swim, his fingers racing to uncrumple the small note Arkytior had hidden in his pocket as he plummets.