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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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.

"Uh... I guess you can always do some of each? Mix it up a little?" He grins sharply and a little hungrily, that light still gleaming in his eyes. He wants this guy to hurt.

Humming, Dylan considers him for a moment, head tipping to one side and the then other, over and over again as, presumably, he plays eenie-menie-miney-mo trying to decide where to start. When he stills, he moves all at once, jamming the nose of the pliers under one of his nails in the blink of an eye. Jones's friend whimpers. The whimpers turn into a scream, a second later, as Dylan pulls, and he turns, holding up the nail for Jack to see.

"There's one."

Dropping it, he turns back to go in for a tooth, a smile on his face. He's needed this and for more than just his revenge on the one that got away.

Jack grins back. "I want a turn before you get through all of 'em, by the way."

He's not going to interrupt Dylan's fun at the moment, but he does want a go with the pliers at some point.

Or he can always work on Jones himself.

There's another scream, this one muffled, before Dylan answers, as he pushes the pliers into his mouth, clamps down on a tooth and pulls. He holds that one up, too, letting him double over on himself as much as he can, restrained as he is, and then drops the tooth into his hand. It's debatable what he plans on doing with it, but clearly he has some need to hold onto the tooth, if the fact that he slips it into his pocket before offering the pliers to Jack is any indication.

"Here." They can take turns. Sharing is caring or whatever.

Jack takes the offered pliers and steps forward. "Hm," he hums thoughtfully - and then reaches for one of their victim's hands, to get a grip on one of his nails and pull it from his skin. He hums again once it's done, this one more satisfied, and drops the nail.

Jones's friend shrieks a third time, the sound decidedly wet this time, choking, as he struggles with a mouthful of blood. A series of whimpers follow, but Dylan ignores him, for the most part, his expression falling into something thoughtful, instead. After a beat, he suggests, "Y'know, you could probably break one of his fingers, with those."

He could probably break one of his fingers with his bare hands, too, but.

"Or I could just..." he says, unknowingly following the same line of thought as Dylan.
He reaches out with his free hand to grab one of their prisoner's fingers, pulling on it a little before he snaps it back hard, the red in his eyes flashing a little as he does, and he lets out a satisfied hum as Jones's friend shrieks again.

"One of these days," Dylan starts, once their prisoner tapers off into soft whimpering, "we really oughta go find out how strong you actually are, now." He doubts Jack can match him, in strength, in speed, just yet, but he might be surprised, and either way, he's curious. Regularly testing the Horsemen's limits really doesn't hurt, knowing what they're capable of helpful for planning, and he's sure they don't mind the excuse to show off a little.

"In the meantime, though," he continues, reaching for Jones again. In the meantime, he, too, will break a finger, barehanded, just for funsies.

Jack looks immediately interested, practically ignoring Jones's friend now in favor of nodding. "Yeah, man, that'd be awesome."

He doesn't have any inclination at being able to beat Dylan either; he recognizes he's still growing into all this new power - but he also wouldn't mind giving it a try.

He does look back at their prisoner, watching Dylan take a turn, interest returning as the man screams again.

Dylan takes a step back, that third finger broken, leaving him to whimper softly as he studies him, dispassionately. After a beat, he glances to Jack and admits, "I'm getting kinda bored, with this. I think I wanna kinda ... "

Spice things up a little, and so he readjusts his grip on the pliers. For a moment following, he just stands there, nothing appearing to happen, and then he leans back in, pressing the head of the pliers gently against the back of their prisoner's hand. He screams again, drowning out a sizzle as the metal connects (but not the smell of burning meat filling the air), and Dylan rocks back again, this time inspecting the burn mark on the back of his hand. The jaws of the pliers glow a faint, hot red, oddly obvious, now, where it wasn't before.

"Yeah, that's better," Dylan decides, before holding the pliers back out to Jack. He's welcome to use them to brand their friend somewhere, too. Or he can do something else, if he can muster the magic, the power for it, for all that Dylan can see War in him, in this moment.

"Ooh," Jack hums, approving. He glances at the pliers before he takes them, and he doesn't hesitate before he steps forward and presses it to the side of their victim's neck, holding it there as it sizzles and the man screams.

Jack steps back for a moment, long enough for him to catch his breath - and then repeats the motion on the other side.

"I was gonna tell you to give him a minute, between burns," Dylan starts, looking amused, as if they're not fucking torturing someone, "but it looks like you figured it out." Which is good. He wants their friend to feel everything they do to him, after all.

"Well, yeah," he agrees easily. "I mean, we have all day, right?" he asks with a grin, that fire still in his eyes.

He assumes Dylan will take care of anything like keeping the man alive or the guards from seeing what they're up to. Nevermind they still have someone else to play with when they finish with him.

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