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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"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.

"We've got all the time in the world," Dylan promises, smile taking on a sharper note. The guards absolutely won't notice them, if and when there are any left, after the little riot Jack started, and no one here is going anywhere, until they're good and done. Depending on how drawn out this gets, he might use some real power, play with time a little, so that they can have their fun, however long it takes, but they will get to have their fun.

After all these assholes put him through, he's owed this.

"Good." Jack mirrors that grin. "I wanna take you apart," he tells their victim, eyes going dark - and something in Jack's shadow flickers, the shape of it larger than the rest of him.

Dylan's eyes jump to Jack's shadow, catching the movement, the change, and then dart back up to Jack. He watches him for a moment, silent, tongue raking over his teeth slowly, interested, more, and then very carefully, he reaches out to Jack, mentally.

He wouldn't have bothered trying to connect them, however briefly, before now, afraid that touching his mind might break Jack. (It wouldn't be the first time.) He's not entirely sure he should be trying it now, despite the change in Jack, his shadow, his eyes, or the fact that he's been in Jack's dreams, that a little different, but. But he's afraid that, if he says anything aloud or even breathes to heavy, it'll break the moment, and Jack's becoming, and his humanity, more physical at this point than anything else, will snap back into place, and he doesn't want that. He'll risk potentially giving the kid nightmares for a week if he can goad him into being, if only for a few minutes.

That in mind, then, he whispers at the back of Jack's thoughts, Do it. Show him what you're going to be capable of, full stop, one day, Jack. Be War for a few minutes, now.

Jack shudders a little as Dylan gets into his head, a breath like a growl slipping out of him. "Yeah," he says simply, hand dipping back into the tool belt, this time coming up with an utility knife. "Hold still," he tells his victim as he slides the razor out of its housing - and then he's just going to proceed with removing the man's ear from the side of his head.

Their friend isn't about to sit still, but that just makes it worse, doesn't it? The cuts, after all, won't be as clean, no matter how precise Jack is. Poor man. Not that Dylan is going to offer any suggestions as a mercy, not that he tries to tighten his bonds again, to keep him still. Instead, the best he does is start humming Stuck In The Middle With You, loudly, in time with the screaming.

Jack steps back after a moment, hands covered in blood, holding up the ear as he turns an amused grin to Dylan. "Shoulda brought a Bluetooth speaker down here."

He considers the ear, then. "Think I should make him eat it?"

"Next time," Dylan promises, eyes darting between their victim, Jack and back again, as the former curls in on himself, or tries to, whimpering softly, now. A shrug follows, at the suggestion, "I wouldn't mind watching that."

He also wouldn't be opposed to Jack keeping the ear as a trophy or whatever else he might want to do with it. He's more interested in what evil Jack is capable of, right now, more than anything else.

The man does have another ear he can take as a trophy, and he nods. "Alright, open up," he tells their victim as he slices off part of the ear and proceeds to stuff it into the man's mouth.

The man tries to fight, tries to refuse, but Jack growls lowly in the back of his throat and eventually manages to shove the piece in, holding his hand over his mouth so he doesn't just spit it out again.

"I think I saw a wire coil, sticking out of that toolbelt," Dylan notes, softly. If Jack wants to wire his jaw shut from the outside in, he'd definitely be able to -- or, if he'd rather something more horrifying, Dylan could just use his power to remove his mouth entirely. It's just a suggestion, though, either way.

"Hm," Jack begins, thoughtfully. "I don't know." He keeps his hand in place, looking down toward his belt. "Maybe I shoulda grabbed a staple gun or something, too."

Their victim is still struggling under Jack's hand, tossing his head, tears leaking out of his eyes, now, as the blood continues to run down his face.

He is absolutely on board with shutting the man's mouth, somehow, if Dylan wants to do something magically.

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