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

[onebehind]

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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[the_death_card]

"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.

[onebehind]

"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."

[the_death_card]

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.

[onebehind]

"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.

[the_death_card]

"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.

[onebehind]

"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.

[the_death_card]

"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.

[onebehind]

"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.

[the_death_card]

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.

[onebehind]

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.

[the_death_card]

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.

[onebehind]

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.

[the_death_card]

"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?

[onebehind]

"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.

[the_death_card]

"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.

[onebehind]

"It'd only be fair. We wouldn't want him to feel left out," Dylan agrees, turning back towards the cell. And while he doesn't immediately go for Jones, planning on letting Jack decide what they're going to do to him, he does flash him a smile, mouth full of too many teeth, too sharp and intentionally so.