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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"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.

"Not too late to go looking," Dylan tells him. Never mind the fact that, even before the words are fully out of his mouth, he's already circling their friend again. He looks up at Jack as he has to stop for him, and then turns to touch his fingers to the wound lightly, almost gently.

His hand comes back unsurprisingly bloody, and he reaches to wipe it off on the lower half of the man's face, nudging Jack's hand out of the way, briefly. He doesn't seem to notice, a little busy otherwise. He does, however, notice when, after a handful of muttered words under Dylan's breath, his lips start to fuse together, and skin all at once sticky, fluid. He whimpers again, then, more insistently, and Dylan steps back, smiling.

"Or I could do that."

Jack takes his hand away, tilting his head to watch whatever's Dylan doing. When it's clear what's happening, his grin comes back. "See, now that's some horror movie shit," he says - and he means in that in the most approving way possible.

"Kinda the point," Dylan tells him lightly, watching, still smiling as their man fish-faces, trying to open his mouth and making less and less progress as it literally disappears. After a beat, he tells Jack, "So worth it."

So worth the little something extra it's costing him to do this.

"Absolutely," Jack returns darkly - and then tilts his head a little, considering. "Hm. Now what," he says softly. If Dylan has any other immediate ideas, he's welcome to offer them.

"He's still got all his toes," Dylan suggests after a minute. They could cut or break one of them -- or they could heat something and apply it to his feet. Hell, if they were feeling really creative, it wouldn't be hard to fashion makeshift metal shoes, heat them, and then see how far he can get while wearing them.

"Oh, yeah," Jack agrees. "We should probably give the rest of him some attention, too."

He tilts his head a little, frowning. "I always wondered if getting that place on your heel fucked with hurt as bad as the movies make it look."

You know, the Achilles tendon, considering how often it gets sliced open in horror movies.

"Always works wonders for me," Dylan answers, shrugging. He's done that on more than one occasion. It's always slowed down whoever he was stalking to the point where they felt fucked, he's sure. Not like he couldn't have caught up on his own, without.

"You wanna cut him up and let him go? See how far he gets?" It's not too far off his original idea.

Jack nods. "Works for me," he agrees, reaching for the utility knife again as he crouches, reaching for the man's foot, needing to take his shoes off.

Their friend squirms, though Dylan's not sure it's because he's still dealing with the fact that he just lost his mouth as horrifically as possible or if he's caught wind of the conversation. Either way, Dylan tilts his head to one side, and the metal of the chair he's bolted to shifts again, to hold him better. It's no fun, if your entertainment's trying to get away.

That done, and while Jack's working at his shoes, he turns his attentions back to Jones, himself, who at the moment, seems to be catatonic in the corner of his cell. That's no fun, either, but Dylan's not too terribly upset by it. He'll make sure Jones remembers every little thing that happened to his friend, right before they start in on him, and really, it's probably better this way, if only for the time being. At least this way, they can focus on one of them at a time.

Jack pulls the man's shoes off and tosses them to the side, followed by his socks. That done, he clicks the knife up again - and then, with remarkably little hesitation, makes a deep cut across the back of the man's foot.

He doesn't have much of a shadow at the moment, considering that he's bending down and a lot of the light is blocked by an assortment of things - but there's that flickering again, what he's becoming warring against his humanity.

He whimpers, each breath staccato, pained, that much possible even without a mouth, and closes his eyes tightly. He tries to lean forward, to curl into a ball as tears spring from the corners of his eyes, but he can't, not with how Dylan has him restrained -- or at least not immediately, anyway. After a beat, however, Dylan lets him go, the metal of the chair groan as it slithers away. Their friend pitches forward, landing in a puddle at Jack's feet, and lays there for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

When he seems to remember himself, he starts trying to crawl away. Dylan watches him go, blood trailing behind him like a slug's trail, and briefly entertains the idea of turning him into one, when this is all over. Maybe feed him to his friend, too.

"Think we should see how far he can get?" Jack asks Dylan. "Can you, uh..."

He gestures, making a circle with his finger. Can Dylan fuck with reality, to let their friend think he's getting away only for him to end up right back where he started?

Edited 2020-11-14 18:37 (UTC)

"Yeah," Dylan answers, digging his claws into the meat of his hand. He uses the blood drawn to work his magic, literally, power pulling at the hackles of the mortals in the room as he mutters under his breath. An odd sensation follows, like reality has somehow gotten sticky, sickly elastic, like taffy being pulled, and then all at once, while their friend should have made at least some progress, he's right back where he started. No matter how far he crawls from Jack, he'll always be at his feet.

"That work for you?" Dylan asks, watching as the man tries to slither away again, clearly horrified by the fact that he doesn't seem to be getting anywhere. This is -- such a costly mess, but it's worth it.

"Definitely," Jack all but purrs. "Should we let him keep at it and make sure his friend gets some attention?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder toward Jones.

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onebehind - 2020-11-26 14:22 (UTC) - Expand

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