"Alea iacta est.  The die has been cast."
-- Julius Caesar, upon crossing the Rubicon river in 49 BCE

"Et tu, Brute?"
-- Julius Caesar, upon his death in Rome five years later

"Check," Jonas repeated for the third time, not trying very hard to hide a smile as he slid the device back to his partner.  "Your move, Eleor."

For all of the time that he'd spent as a private investigator, surveillance had never been high on Jonas's lists of favorite details.  Keeping watch on someone or something was tedious at the best of times; at the worst, he had to fight to stay awake for hours on end.  Keeping watch with someone else present was certainly a new experience for him, and while it was decidedly better, even company wouldn't keep him from going mad if he didn't have something to occupy his time.

The plan was simple.  When it came to the Runespoor smuggling ring, Azize Mulogo had been totally uninvolved up until a week ago.  Prior to the article getting published, there had been no reason for any  criminal elements to be watching him, no reason for anyone to be keeping tabs.

Adon and Jonas had taken full advantage of that fact.  They had worked together to craft a routine for Mulogo, painstakingly picking and choosing the moments when the diplomat would be exposed.  Every morning, he apparated to an alleyway near the street entrance to the Ministry, then used the Visitor's entrance to descend into work.  Every evening, he left by the same route, ascending to the Muggle phone booth and walking back to his home.  They'd arranged to stagger it every now and then; a late departure one day, a stop at a pub another.  But for the most part, the routine was perfectly predictable.  It was an assassin's dream.

Which was why Jonas and Adon were sitting here now, in the dingy pub across the street from the perfectly nondescript Muggle phone booth that functioned as the Visitor's Entrance to the Ministry.  They'd claimed the same table near the front window for the past three mornings; Jonas had a feeling that the bartender was getting a bit suspicious, but a hearty enough tip left behind at the conclusion of their prior watches had kept him from asking any questions.  Pubs in London certainly got all sorts.

The attack on Mulogo was no doubt coming, but if Jonas had to put money down, he doubted that it would happen now.  Most of the other assassinations had taken place in the evening, and attempting to murder a Ministry diplomat right outside of the Ministry seemed a bit bold even for the Runespoor crime ring.  But they'd constructed a routine, and so they were here to keep watch even in these brief moments of exposure.  From their vantage point inside the pub, they could keep an eye on the alleyway where Mulogo would apparate in and observe him all the while until he had safely descended into the Ministry.  There was no room for error.  Paying attention was essential, both for their case and for Mulogo's safety.

But that didn't mean that they had to sit silently while they did it.

"You know, Houdini," Jonas remarked cheerfully, leaning his elbows on the table as he turned his attention back to the lone phone booth across the street.  "If you're really getting that bored with chess, I reckon there are plenty of other games we could try whilst we're waiting.  Draughts.  Cribbage.  You ever play Nine Mens Morris?" he asked, resting his chin on his hands.  "You blokes must've had something you did in IDF to pass the time other than threatening to throw things at your mate's head, yeah?"

Adon sighed and glowered at the offered iphone. Jonas had been "Checking" him for about five minutes now. Adon was tempted to check Jonas against the wall, if he didn't stop with that shit-eating grin on his face.

Apathetically, Adon moved his finger across the screen to move some piece -- he didn't care which -- and handed it back. Jonas was going to win. Adon didn't doubt that. Adon had also decided about 10 minutes ago that if Jonas was going to win, Adon was not going to embarrass himself by looking like he'd been trying to.

"You know, Houdini," Jonas smirked,  "If you're really getting that bored with chess, I reckon there are plenty of other games we could try whilst we're waiting.  Draughts.  Cribbage.  You ever play Nine Mens Morris?" he asked, resting his chin on his hands.  "You blokes must've had something you did in IDF to pass the time other than threatening to throw things at your mate's head, yeah?"

"Sure," Adon said. "We did plenty of stuff. You know, sometimes we actually did throw things at our mates' heads, yeh? Want me to show you?" He looked back out the window, trying to block out whatever Jonas' smartmouthed response would be. Adon was accustomed to surveillance. He'd done it for countless years in the Israeli Defense Force and was, by the end of his tenure there, a second lieutenant on Aman's patrol squad, gathering military intelligence. This was as easy as breathing.

Except that human behaviour wasn't, really, military behaviour. It made identification of patterns slightly different, but Adon was going to do the best he could to avoid losing miserably that that game. There was too much at stake. And it didn't pay to get distracted.

He frowned as he kept an eye on the phonebooth. He glanced down the street they'd arrived by. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he made a bit of a note on a piece of Muggle-ized paper. That man in the blue jacket, who had arrived at 7:14 am yesterday and 7:25 the day before, was now here at 8:27 am. Perhaps a deviation not of note. But perhaps. He was also wearing black today.

Adon, not trusting Jonas to his own devices for approximately -- Adon looked at his watch -- 48 seconds -- looked back over at his partner. "So?"

A morning like any other - or it should have been. This really wouldn't do; to Azorma, this felt like she'd gotten a beautiful painting halfway done and then someone had splashed it with water. To some people, her plan might still appear artful; but to her, it was now a shadow of what it had once been, too full of shortcuts and details hastily discarded. And possibly some over stretched metaphors, too.

Accursed werewolves. The panic and rumble of the Ministry attempting to cope with the recent wave of attacks had thrown her plans and schedule off - and Azorma did not take well to having her plans messed up, especially by a bunch of furry freaks. The nerve! They'd made it difficult to sneak into the Ministry, hard to find people, made it more difficult to follow Mulogo...

It had taken her several weeks of watching start to formulate her plans - the two men shadowing Mulogo's moves were the most interesting to her, of course, and she had been pleased to find a lucky clue - and a break - early on. This, she felt, would be the key - her employers had requested that the killing be public and leave no mystery over who had ordered it. She'd been looking forward to this - too many of her recent contracts had been 'mysterious death' or 'missing' cases, and while coming up with creative ways to dispose of bodies could be very entertaining indeed, this had a rush to it she had been missing.

The two guards amused her greatly. They were as predictable as their charge; she'd only had to cast a glance to know where the two sat this morning. Hah! Aurors - incompetent, the whole lot of them. At least the Egyptian aurors knew their jobs and their place; she suspected these wouldn't even hesitate before arresting a Pureblood. Hmph!

She's been waiting for Mulogo's arrival for some time, waiting for the two Aurors to get set up. Currently, she was sitting in an alleyway; positioned nicely so that she could see Azize approaching the phone booth, but she was somewhat out of sight of the cafe.

It always felt odd to switch one's gender. She adjusted her clothing - getting more into character by creasing her robes here and neatening them just there. The clothing she wore had been another stroke of luck; Dreogan Eleor didn't seem to bother to decorate his robes in any way. It hadn't been too much of an issue to find nearly exact duplicates of the man's working clothes. A bit of added wear completed the look.

The fact he wasn't a huge man, but was larger than she was helped; if she did get forced into her own body, she wore her more practical fighting attire underneath the robes. Having her clothing charmed to stretch when her body grew was extremely convenient.

His hair was also curly and kind of bouncy. She'd had to take her time getting used to his form and practicing his body language - if she'd had more time, it would have been almost flawless, she felt. Alas, her employers seemed determined to rush her; she'd thought them confining her to using Runespoor poison was enough of a compromise. So long as Mulogo would up dead, did it truly matter how?

She was a bit sad to have to polish off Mulogo, though; he was quite a looker. Ah, well...the demands of the job.

Hands in pockets, Dreogan Eleor strolled towards the Ministry's entrance, walking with long strides. She had her wand and her dagger in his sleeves; the dagger's grip rested easily in the palm of her hand, ready.

Jonas shielded a cough, not trying very hard to hide his self-satisfied grin as he tapped the screen to move another piece.  "Check," he replied, looking extremely pleased with himself as he slid the device back to Adon.  "And I don't know about that, mate.  I know you've got plenty of masculine energy and all, but I sort of reckon that'd count as workplace abuse here."  He flashed Adon a lopsided smile that was probably tempting fate before settling to watch the street again.  "Can't you just drown me in the depths of the waters of your brooding soul instead?  Same effect in the end, innit?"

Resting his chin in his hands again, he turned his attention back to the scene outside the glass.  Suddenly, he sat up straight, his posture tensing as he squinted at a figure on the opposite side of the street.

"Adon," Jonas said in a low voice, the tension in his tone adding a sharp edge to his partner's name.

It was obviously Dreogan, curly hair and all.  The other wizard had stopped right outside the phone booth that served as the Visitor's Entrance to the Ministry, where he appeared to be waiting.  Jonas took a deep breath, clenching his teeth together tightly and feeling all too conscious of the man sitting next to him.  He had been careful - probably too careful - to avoid mentioning any discord he might have had with his friend's older brother directly to Adon.  There was no doubt in his mind that his partner knew anyhow; the Israeli was canny enough to read between the lines, even when Jonas had done his best to avoid falling into his usual trap of filling up pauses left in conversation.

Dreogan, though, clearly wasn't playing by the same rulebook.  Jonas bit back an irritated sigh, doing his best to keep his frustration from showing on his face or in his posture.  First the diplomat had challenged and accused him, declared that he didn't trust him; now he'd apparently decided to take his interference to another level.  They were probably bloody lucky that the mage hadn't just gone straight to the Prophet to reveal the ruse.

But he couldn't let his frustration with Dreogan's ridiculous martyr complex affect his judgement now.  Jonas let out the breath he'd been holding in a quick hiss, glancing to meet his partner's gaze. 

"Your call," he told Adon quietly, switching his phone off and returning it to his pocket.  The practical solution was obvious, but the least he could do was give the other man a way out that didn't involve Adon having to directly confront his brother.  "You want to leave him be?  If you'd rather we get him away, I don't mind pulling him out of there meself, mate."

Adon growled momentarily in exasperation as he snatched the iphone back. "Check, mate," Adon said, pressing the round, middle button at the bottom of the screen.

Though a marked victory, Adon didn't look too smug. He was looking back out the window, hackles raised and back arched like a cat poised and ready to strike.

Jonas noticed it, moments later.

"Adon," he whispered.

"I know," Adon hissed back, angrily. He sucked on his teeth as he considered. He would strangle his brother later for this. "Harah!" he added for emphasis as he puffed his cheeks and ran a hand over his face. "I can't believe this. Shit."

"Your call," Jonas was saying calmly. Adon, at the moment, was feeling anything but calm. He ran both hands over his face now, grimacing.

"Augh!" he growled, again. "Dree!" he said in a low rumble. This was so like him. So like him these days. He just couldn't understand, and now he was just endangering everybody, rather than protecting them.

At Jonas' suggestion, Adon waved his hand widely. "No, no. I don't want a scene." Which Jonas' presence, if detected, would illicit. "I can handle this."

He stayed on his barstool, breathing through his nose for several moments more before stepping out and exiting the forlorn pub. Once outside, Adon shook his head in Dreogan's direction, giving him some forewarning of his displeasure.  Dreogan hadn't even had the sense to wear Muggle attire, something Adon, in his surveillance, had done. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his dragonhide jacket as he glanced both ways across the street.

"Dree!" he called when he was a few paces away. He closed the distance, gesturing his frustration with his hands. "Come on, brother! Really?"

Perhaps not the best way to make a scene, but at the moment, seeing Dreogan's characteristic nervous twitches and general awkwardness, like he was standing in someone else's skin, made Adon mad as hell.

She barely managed to stay in character as Adon spoke - she whipped around just a little too quickly for Dreogan, her fast reaction instinct showing for just a moment before she molded back into the semi-awkward man and managed to just barely pull it off as him being surprised.

If willpower could kill, though, Adon would have been streak of jam on the street. Thankfully a look of caution was appropriate for Adon's brother in this siduation, if a little out of character...

The pause was poignant, as she considered the interactions she'd been able to observe between the two brothers. She folded Dreogan's arms and leaned on the phone booth, letting her body language display a bit of nervous bravado hidden under the casual stance.

"Adon. Yes, really," she said, sticking her jaw out a little bit. "You two are just going to get yourselves and Azize killed," she added, letting her tone quiver nervously just a bit, even as she was aware she meant that. Azize was running late - damn - she had to get rid of this man before he realized...

Despite the crossed arms, her grip on the poisoned dagger tightened, waiting for Adon's move. The moment he got too close...Azize be damned, she'd just kill him when he rounded the corner. And what was an assassination without a bit of chaos?

Adon bit back an angry retort, settling instead for a frustrated sigh. Dreogan was on edge; it was making him act . . . bizarrely. Adon wasn't entirely sure how his brother would react to anything he said and so, with a slight glance back at the pub said, "We've talked about this before, brother. And my answer's the same. We've got it under control and have a plan." He looked back to Dreogan accusitorally. "Or did, until you showed up. Look. I don't like us discussing this out in the open. How about we go back inside and talk it over with Jonas, yeh?"

That was the concession that Dreogan had been asking for for a month. He hoped Dreogan would take it now. He didn't like this waiting, when the assassin might arrive at any time. Or Azize . . . the assassin could be watching them now, for all he knew, and their entire mission, if that were so, would be jeopardised.

He looked over at Dreogan to see him awkwardly leaning against the booth, like it was something he'd learned from watching the "cool kids," and his neck stretched out like an iguana, trying to assert territory.  He sure knew how to screw things up.

Even Adon -- especially Adon -- could tell something was not right. He could read his brother like a book, and the signals, today, were all jumbled. Considering Dreogan's odd behaviour post-possession (and for that matter, during the possession), and then the fight . . . but this felt different and Adon'd be damned if he didn't figure it out.

"Let's just," he said, stepping towards him and resting a light hand on the man's shoulder, "talk this out, yeh?"

She pondered her options, silently watching Adon as he approached. "Under control?" She asked, letting Dreogan seem annoyed and insulted. "You're letting him walk around freely - where is he now? How do you know he hasn't been attacked while you sit in that cafe with your date?"

She stopped Dreogan's tirade and scowled darkly - a dark expression that almost never would have appeared on Dreogan's features. Adon's hand was on her shoulder and she looked at him. Then she smiled kindly.

"You're right, Adon. Let's get this over with," she said. "The assassin could be anywhere, we shouldn't be drawing attention..."

As she spoke, she straightened up and walked closer to Adon, arms first falling to her sides before she gently touched Adon's shoulder, easing in until she was uncomfortably close. When they were almost pressed together, one of her legs between his, her right hand moved forward suddenly, the poisoned dagger sliding easily into her palm and gouging into his stomach.

"Should have stayed in the cafe, little boy," she told him, without dropping his brother's form or voice.

"Because," Adon retorted sharply -- before stopping abruptly.

. . . Date?

Whatever Dreogan was, he wasn't a smart-ass. He didn't use anger for rhetorical effect. And he didn't taunt.

The scowl was too menacing. The brotherly familiarity was -- it had never been there, however much Dreogan had smiled or called him --

As Dreogan smiled and his hand also reached Adon's shoulder, Adon shuddered and tensed instinctively. As the proximity increased, he relaxed his muscles, getting ready to move. This wasn't his brother. He didn't know who it was -- though he had a pretty short list and a very good idea of who it could be -- but he was not going to show them any mercy. Just as soon as they got out of his brother's body.

As the leg pressed against him, Adon shuddered again, anger flaring in his eyes -- foreseeing in a moment the intent, Adon made a movement for his wand before seeing his brother begin a fatal action of his own. There was no time.

Adon threw his hips back to create more distance and threw his arm in front of him as a shield to deflect the blow. Still, he was too close. . . Adon tensed, bracing himself. 

And yet, he did not feel the flash of dazzling, dizzying pain that he'd expected to feel. He smiled viciously and victoriously, acting quickly to wrap his arm around the knife-bearing arm, stretched out and useless to the side, locking the elbow and holding it immobile against him.  He closed the distance between them once more; this time, on his terms. Driving his knee repeatedly into his brother's stomach, Adon waited to hear the sound of the blade on the flagstones. "We call them pubs, here, Terry!" he growled between blows.

And then, suddenly, Adon halted in his motions, yielding to a momentary panic as the white-hot pain began to throb from his side.  He glanced down; the blood had begun to run down, from beneath his dragonhide jacket, to stain the denim of his jeans.

Trained Auror. Of course he'd know how to deflect that - a pity, then, he'd done it too late. She held the knife's handle firmly - no easy task, with him kneeing her in the stomach. Air blasted from her lungs on the first blow, her arm twisted across his chest as he forced her body to bend forward.

Still, she didn't seem as phased as he might have hoped; unseen by him, her lips were twisted into a feral grin. There was something exhilarating about pain; and she only smiled wider as he paused, the change in his breathing and grip giving her a chance to suddenly twist, throwing her weight sideways. She yanked loose from his grip and half-rolled on the sidewalk, landing a bit awkwardly.

Dreogan shrank as she fell, his curly hair falling down to long midnight black locks, his form becoming delicate, the white skin darkening to deep brown and his eyes changing to icy blue. The clothing she'd worn as the seer fell from Azorma's shoulders, revealing the odd clothing she wore underneath - but she was her own form for just a moment before she left, suddenly much faster; clearly more comfortable in this body. Knife tossed aside, she landed on Adon's chest, her hands equipped with long, sharp claws.

"Come on, boy - let's have some fun, shall we?" she said, smiling. "Pity, really - you're kind of cute -" she kicked at his stomach as she spoke, her toes aimed for the knife wound.

Jonas had let out a sigh as Adon huffily declined his offer of help and left the pub.  Making a face, the red-haired Auror leaned his elbows on the counter, cupping his chin in his hands as he watched Adon stride outside and check both ways before crossing the street.

It was frustrating that the situation with Dreogan had deteriorated so badly.  But the mage wasn't interested in compromise or necessity - he had made it very clear that only his way would be acceptable.  He wanted control over a Magical Law Enforcement operation that wasn't Jonas's -- or Adon's -- to give. 

Adon was right.  It would be far simpler for him to just handle this, but Jonas had a part in it too.  They couldn't keep letting Dreogan interfere like this.  If the diplomat wasn't willing to step back on his own and wasn't willing to be convinced, they'd either have to find other, harsher measures to take or re-evaluate how they were managing this operation.

Jonas dug tiredly into his pocket, searching through his wallet for the appropriate coins to cover the morning's bill.  Outside, Adon was crossing the street; a couple of Muggle automobiles and a taxi had stalled at the light just outside the pub, partially obscuring his view as they waited for the traffic signal to change.  Jonas glanced up briefly, craning his neck to see.  Adon approaching Dreogan, his arms oustretched; the two brothers converging; Dreogan stepping closer; and then a flurry of quick movements as the two figures locked together and Adon started to --

Jonas's stomach dropped.

The red-haired man jerked to his feet, nearly slamming his knee into the bottom of the counter in the process.  Grabbing his coat -- and without giving a second thought to what was happening or what he was going to do when he actually got outside -- he broke for the door.

As the small, lithe figure rolled to the ground, it was abundantly apparent that Dree was no longer Dree; Adon didn't have time to register the relief, to recalibrate his tactics, or to question this new turn of events.  All he knew was that his opponent was no longer his brother, was no longer in his brother's body, and was not, therefore, going to be spared any great physical harm.

His adversary lunged towards him with a spring-like energy, talons ready to dig into his chest. Once more, Adon raised his arms as might a boxer to protect his body; he blocked both blows, leaving his arms occupied -- while not yet trapping her arms. He was prepared to strike out with his knee once more, but it seemed the woman was, at least, one step ahead.

Adon knew from his first failure that he needed to maintain distance when these attacks came; there was no time to step back.

With a crack that resounded down the street, Adon vanished, only to appear directly behind his opponent, his heavy breathing shifting her hair. The intention had been to kick out her knees and subdue her from there. The magic, however, had taken more from him, had somehow thrown things off beyond just the knife wound . . . -- This was not going as planned.

He felt dizzy. And chilled. Pain radiated through his core, moving to the tips of his fingers and settling at the base of his neck. This head throbbed. His breathing caught, and his heart raced.

There was no purpose in attempting a move now; he'd missed the opportunity. Adon instead focussed on regaining distance between his enemy and himself, taking three light steps back where he waited, on the balls of his feet, for another attack.

She reacted quickly to his disappearance, landing on her toes and almost instantly rolling sideways to avoid the attack from behind - not soon enough to avoid it, but maybe quick enough to avoid a hold-

Which didn't come.

She sat crouched for just a moment, and there was a standoff; in the knell of silence that followed, the shouts of the few Muggles indicated they'd spotted something was up. Azorma risked a quick glance to the side; a man had burst from the cafe door and looked to start running towards them from across the street, and muggles faces were at the window. The Red head Auror...

Looking back to Adon, she jumped backwards. "Oh dear, slowing down already? Come on, Auror, aren't you tougher than that?" She teased him jovially. The running footsteps of Muggles indicated some of them might be coming in from the main road; in her sensitive ears, the sounds of the city boomed, but she only truly had ears for Adon at the moment; listening to the raggedness of his breathing, the odd eating of his heart.

The seconds felt like forever, but she finally leapt; diving towards him, claws out, aimed towards his face - but at the last moment she ducked down, rolling past him, her claws swinging low and raking towards his knees and calves as she caught herself on her hand to land the leap.

It was as she twisted, her wand came out; but rather than pointing at Adon, she aimed it to the pub. Her raspy voice hissed, "Expulso!"

The front window of the cafe exploded, sending shards of glass into the street. Screams erupted as the muggles inside panicked and swarmed away.

Adon felt himself recovering just as his opponent deftly rolled past him. He attempted to clear the distance -- again, moments too late -- hearing the fabric of his jeans rip before feeling the light sting of a superficial scrape.

He fought back mounting irritation; his body was not doing what it should, and he could not rely on it as he needed to.  If he did not win, she would kill him. And Jonas. And anyone she pleased. Adon did not think he could win. But he was  trained; he had evaluated; and he knew what his role was in this situation.

He turned to stand behind the woman who was in a half crouch, wand out, back to him. There was a deafening crash from where Jonas had been just moments before. The sick feeling in his gut left him charged with a fatal determination.  He picked a spot -- the side of the head; her temple, if he could manage it -- and steeled his muscles. Lifting his leg, he swung out. Pivoting his foot, he made an arc towards his target, allowing the inertia of his body to carry him.

He didn't dare listen to his body, as he was accustomed to, in a fight. If he had, he'd have felt the sting in his shin--certainly not helped by the kick-- the white-hot, then cold, pain in his side, the throbbing at the base of his skull, the tightness in his throat, the faintness about his temples. . .

But even Adon couldn't ignore his darkening vision or trembling fingers. It didn't stop him. At this point, nothing should; stopping meant defeat. Completing the kick by tucking his leg in as he completed his pivot, Adon shakily regained his original, fighting stance and attempted to ascertain whether or not his opponent was disarmed, recovered, or knocked out.

The foot to the side of her head hadn't been entirely expected; the world spin and pain blossomed across her skull. The blow sent her forward and she sprawled onto the concrete, distantly feeling her wand clatter from her fingers.

Raging at herself and trying to will her eyes to focus again, Adon's blurry form was in her line of sight. He'd fall, and soon - at the rate he was going. She forced herself to get up to her elbows, fingers desperately finding her wand - it hadn't gone far, thankfully, though she had issues getting a grip on it. Poison or not, he was still standing and his kick had had significant force behind it - she couldn't afford to stay still.

She couldn't get to her feet, he head wasn't letting her. She forcibly rolled out of the range of his feet, groaning at the feeling this resulted in. A basic mending charm to the side of her head helped a bit, though her balance was still off, the world a blurred and throbbing place.

The cocky smile found its way to her face again, though, as her head began to clear. "Runespoor poison," she hissed, her raspy voice making it sound more like a croak. "I wouldn't move much...you're only making it worse." She was working on getting to her feet, but mostly failing. With a growl, she pulled her wand forward, shakily aiming it at him.

"Crucio!"