onebehind | come and see | some nights i thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries

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verse: come and see

come and see | some nights i thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries

It's been a bad day. It's been a bad day when it was supposed to be a good day, an easy day, an easy win.

See, he and Fuller have been chasing some Gangland asshole by the name of John Jones for several months, now. On the surface, he's nothing special, just a middle man for a much larger problem, but that's what made him so appealing a target. Being in the middle means he's not untouchable, not like some of the guys running the show, and more importantly, being where he is means he knows people and can provide names up and down the ranks, both, if they can get him and make him talk. Good news is, they caught the sonovabitch and had what even he thought was an airtight case -- they had a fucking plea deal already drawn up, guy was so fucked. Bad news is -- well, it all went to shit in court today.

A key witness decided they weren't going to testify, never mind the fact that everyone suspects that someone above Mister Jones got to her and convinced her not to talk. Either way, evidence that hinged on her testimony went up in smoke, there, and it all fell apart after that, like a line of dominoes falling over. Suddenly they had nothing, and all Jones gets is another couple of nights in county until the media shitstorm passes, and then he's back on the street, pushing drugs and running guns and enjoying a revolving door of pussy because he was so brave, going up against the big, bad FBI and not snitching on his bosses.

It's bullshit. It's bullshit, and normally, Dylan wouldn't care -- so a bunch of Children of Dust have decided they want to do him a favor, killing each other with the drugs and the guns, so what? They're all going to die sooner or later, anyway, and just as violently. It's not that. It's that he hates losing, and today wasn't just a loss, it was a fucking slaughter. It's that if a bunch of humans are going to spend their lives putting nails in their coffins, someone should have thought to hand him a hammer -- the FBI wasn't the only one that could have made Jones take a shit deal, today, if the trial had panned out. It's a hundred different things, but needless to say he's fuming, and unlike the FBI, whose hands are tied, now, he's actually still in a position to do something.

Seems to him it's a good night for a bottle of good bourbon and a little torture.

Seems to him it'd be a little more fun with a friend, too -- or an audience. Either way, they can make a thing of it.

That in mind, he leans back from the edge of the roof of the courthouse where he's been lurking, unseen, and fishes his phone out of his pocket. One by one, he goes through half a dozen names in his contact list and sends them all the same message. Hey, call me when you get a chance.

His day, he thinks, is about to get a whole lot better.

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"Works for me," Dylan decides with a shrug.

A moment of pause follows, no more than a heartbeat, and then just as quick, he's right-side up again, and standing next to Jack on this side of the bars. Raking his tongue over his teeth, he looks thoughtful for another beat, glancing between Jones and his friend, then finally, he returns his attentions to Jack, asks, "How long do you think it's been since he's had a hit?"

He's not sure what kind of drugs Jones's friend is on, but he'd eat Merritt's hat, if someone told him he wasn't using something.

Jack doesn't startle when Dylan reappears by him, just tilting his head to consider Jones's friend. "I dunno? Few hours, at least? He's probably starting to feel it by now."

He looks to Dylan. "What're you thinking?"

Dylan makes a so-so gesture.

"We could ratchet the withdrawal up, so everything sucks that much more -- " Though, that runs the risk of keeping Jones's friend from being able to enjoy the experience beyond the withdrawal. " -- or I could burn the drugs out of him completely, before we start, so he's clear." When the withdrawal might be fun to watch. There are pros and cons, either way, and he's curious as to which Jack thinks might be better.

Jack thinks for a moment, considering Jones's friend. "I dunno," he begins after a minute. "You could help him out, get the drugs out of the way."

And yes, he knows that's not really helping, but he's definitely getting something out of the idea of being cruel.

Catching Jones's friend's chin between his fingers, he puts a hand on the back of his head, too, to steady him and leans into him, smiling terribly. Before he actually does anything, however, he glances back at Jack again. It's hard to tell if he honestly wants to clarify, or if he's just stealing time, trying to build up the fear, but either way, Dylan asks, "So, I'm nixing the drugs and getting him through the withdrawal?"

"Could be fun," Jack agrees with a half-shrug. "He's probably been through this kinda thing before when his dealer wouldn't pick up, right?"

"Pretty sure that was just withdrawal, not ... " Not powering him through it.

Either way, Dylan shrugs as he trails off, and turns back to Jones's friend, hand coming away from his jaw. He keeps him in place, still, with the fingers of his other hand digging into his scalp, and pricks the palm of his hand with his claws, slicking his fingers in blood. Jones's friend has the nerve to spit at him, then, and Dylan huffs, incredulous, as he reaches up to swipe the back of his hand over his face. The grin returns a moment later, crueler still, and he begins etching something on the man's forehead, muttering under his breath as he goes. If Jack can understand any of it, it's something like Merritt might have whispered to a victim, back when he was just hypnotizing people, swift and seductive and sick. He can feel Jones's friend tense under his fingers, and tightens his hold for a moment, before letting go.

Jones's friend immediately breaks out into a sweat that has nothing to do with anything Dylan's said or done, and he lets him go, looking satisfied. He's helping him through the withdrawal, sure, but he has to go through to get out, and it's all going to happen rapid fire. Dylan really hopes he survives it.

"I feel like I shoulda hit up the break room and found some popcorn or something," Jack puts in as he watches Dylan work, a smirk on his face, that red glow flickering somewhere deep in his eyes.

"If you're gonna make a popcorn run, you'd better do it quick," Dylan tells him from over his should, his attentions still mostly on Jones's friend. His lips twitch upwards absently as he, too, twitches as if someone dropped a bucket full of ants on him, and mostly for his own benefit, Dylan mutters, "Gonna guess you were on more than just the one thing, huh?"

Somewhere behind him, whether he heard that or not, Jones breathes, "What the hell did you do to him?"

"Someone wasn't paying attention," Dylan tells Jack, still off-handedly.

"Nah, think I'm good," Jack offers, equally distracted as he watches Jones's friend. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

He means both that Jones's friend was on something else and that Jones himself wasn't paying attention. He looks to Jones, now, though. "He's just helping him out, man," he offers with a grin that could cut glass.

"Don't worry," Dylan promises, the smile on his face the sort of thing that would set anyone on edge, despite his words, "he'll be fine here in a few minutes."

He pauses, glancing back at Jones's friend as he makes a small, distressed noise, pulling against his restrains a little as if he's trying to get away from something. Whatever it is, though, is clearly not Dylan as he isn't looking at him at all. No, his attentions are focused on his arms, his hands as his fingers flex and curl ineffectually. He's soaked through his shirt, now, beyond that.

Turning back to Jones, Dylan looks thoughtful for a moment before he amends, "Well, maybe." Never mind the fact that, if he does try to escape through death, Dylan will drag him back, kicking and screaming. He has his hooks in him, now; he did before, for all that he's going to Hell when he dies. Dylan has owned him for a long time, even if no deal was ever made between them.

Jack tilts his head a little, too, watching Jones's friend. "Oh, man, that'd suck. If he died before we got to actually do anything else, I mean."

He hadn't thought of that, and he's clearly bothered by it, not knowing that Dylan could actually do something if that did happen.

Dylan hums, throwing another glance at Jack as he catches that sense of disappointment, and rakes his tongue over his teeth. When he seems to find what he looking for, studying him in that moment, he asks, "Wanna know a secret?"

If the look on his face is any indication, it's a good one.

It usually is when it comes to Dylan, Jack has found, and with that in mind, he grins, too. "Fuck yeah, man."

Gesturing for Jack to get into a position where he can see what he's doing, Dylan leans in over Jones's friend, hands coming to rest over his, where they're pinned to the chair. He digs his claws in a little, and while Jones's friend shrieks, Dylan doesn't really think it has anything to do with him. He doesn't seem to be aware of him at all, anymore, fully lost in the nightmare of his withdrawal, but that's just fine. Dylan doesn't need his attention, just Jack's, and he glances over at him, briefly, just to make sure he's watching.

Once he's sure he has a captive audience, he returns his attentions to Jones's friend and leans in just that much more, close enough to kiss him, now, if he wanted. He doesn't. What he does do is start to sync his breath with Jones's friend, panting slowly, heavily in time. There's a sting of magic as they fall into rhythm, and Jones's friend's next exhale comes like frost's breath, visible but black. Dylan lets him take another few, ashy breaths, his own still mingling with his, then hesitates a second, their breathing out of time, now, alternating. Jones's friend breathes out, and Dylan breathes it in, swallowing down a lungful of the smoke with a hum of pleasure. He allows himself another second or two of taste before he leans back, looking back at Jack; Jones's friend continues to pant out smog, even without Dylan helping anymore.

"I own him," he starts, with a vague gesture back at Jones's friend. Dylan doesn't think it's a far logical leap for Jack to realize their new toy is breathing out the manifestation of his dirty, damned soul. "I can't take him, yet, but if and when he dies ... " He becomes Dylan's and Dylan will shove him back into his fragile, mortal shell and make him suffer until he gets bored. Then and only then will he pass him off to someone else, downstairs.

Jack is definitely watching, that red glint creeping back into his eyes as he watches Dylan work. "Nice," he returns, dryly and darkly, the fascination obvious on his face. He has figured out what he's watching, and he nods. "So he's not going anywhere until we're done with him," he adds, finally.

Yeah, this is going to be fun.

"Pretty much," Dylan agrees. A pause follows, a glance back at Jones's friend, and then he mutters, "Which, speaking of ... " Speaking of, it looks like he might be getting ready to crash, and while it would be easy to let him, Dylan hisses something under his breath, instead, pulling Jones's friend back out of the withdrawal by a few steps. He might still end up dying, Dylan might still end up letting him die in the end, but right now, he's still enjoying the show.

So much so that Dylan might let Jack friend the question when Jones finally breathes, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you suck, man," Jack answers immediately. "Because somebody helped you out and you didn't get what you should have. Because you and your buddy deserve to suffer the way you made other people." He pauses a beat, eyes brightening a degree further. "And because it's fun."

"What he said," Dylan echoes, shooting a glance back at Jack as he gestures to him. A pause follows, a second look and a smile, and then, as he turns back to Jones's friend to settle back in for the show, he tells Jack, "Go look at yourself in the mirror over there."

There's a mirror in the cell -- or, well, a reflective surface, at least, no one stupid enough to leave very breakable glass in an inmate's cell. Regardless, though, he wants Jack to see his own eyes, right now. It's a good look for him.

Jack arches an eyebrow at Dylan at that, not sure what he's getting at. Still, he does as directed, moving into the cell and toward its makeshift mirror, squinting at himself - and then smirking when he sees what Dylan means. "Awesome," he declares as he looks back to Dylan.

Yeah, it's definitely a good look - and a good feeling, having this power in him.

Definitely. To the point where, it's vaguely attractive. Dylan's always been draw to power, to inhumanity and right now, Jack is both of those things. He would never act on it, his interest in Alma, in her power and her inevitable fall, speeding closer the more time she spends with him, but -- well, he can still admire what Jack's putting out, right now. He rakes his eyes over him, that in mind, smirking back as Jack looks back at him.

"Definitely." He pauses, his attentions sliding over to Jones's friend, and then, "And I think we're almost outta the woods, here." Soon, it'll be time for the real fun to start.

Jack returns the smirk evenly - and then looks to Jones's friend in time. "It's about time," he answers - and it's mostly to keep up Jones's fear for what they might be about to do, though he is more than ready to get started taking this guy apart, and he moves back to Dylan's side.

"Think I should throw him a rope?" Dylan asks, moving to grab a pair of pliers from the tool belt Jack brought back. "Drag him outta the end of this a little faster, so he's not wasting any more of our tine?"

He's thinking about breaking one of his fingers -- or pulling one of his nails out. Either way.

"Yeah, let's get this going." He pauses a beat, shifting a little recklessly. "Nails? Or teeth?"

He's assuming what Dylan has in mind based on what tool he picked out to start with.

"I was thinking nails, but ... " But if Jack would rather see the latter, he's game. Hell, that might be more fun than just pulling out a nail or two. He's not sure. Both are good choices.

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