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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"Uh," Jack begins, thinking. "Hang on."

There's a moment of silence as Jack takes the phone away from his ear and the sound of air as he types.

"Okay, now I do," he says when he gets back to the phone. "Am I meeting you there?"

Dylan hums to the affirmative, more a purr than anything else, really. A moment of hesitation follows despite that, at odds with the rest of his apparent mood, and then he continues, "Run by the warehouse before you come down here. I'll call ahead -- " Not literally, but he can make sure the grounds don't try and hurt Jack while he's there. " -- and while you're there, I want you to grab the bottle that's sitting on my workbench."

Someone, he can't remember if it was Jack or someone else, once asked if he could get drunk. The answer to that is fairly complicated, but what he's asking Jack to pick up is a hard yes.

"Okay," Jack agrees. "Anything else we're gonna need?"

He has an idea of what Dylan might have in mind given some of the things the others have gotten up to, but obviously not the specifics. He figures it can't hurt to ask if he needs to do anything else in preparation before he actually gets there.

"I'll probably think of a hundred things I wish I'd asked you to pick up, once we're there, but right now, I'm drawing a blank," he admits after a pause for thought. He has no idea what the specifics are, either, and he's running this show. "If there's anything we really need, later, we'll figure something out."

Jack snorts, amused. "Alright. I'll be right there," he says again, since he figures Dylan would rather get going on this than keep talking on the phone. "See you in a minute."

Unless Dylan has anything else, he'll hang up once he responds, calling to the others that he's going out for a bit as he grabs his jacket and heads for the door, to the elevator, to connect to the network and head for the warehouse.

Dylan hums in response and hangs up, too, folding his arms as he leans that much more into the heating unit. Closing his eyes, he reaches mentally for the warehouse, not disarming his wards, purposefully placed or otherwise, but making sure Jack won't trigger them. That done, he pushes away from his perch, taking a handful of steps towards the edge of the roof, and disappears just as he reaches that tipping point before the fall. He reappears somewhere near County, still stalking forward for a few steps before he finally slows, stops, settles into wait for Jack.

The warehouse, meanwhile, is quiet and still when Jack arrives. It's quiet and still and still furious somehow, carrying an echo of Dylan's presence, his mood. The air all but seethes, overhead lights flickering on violently as Jack enters, a handful of candles on the workbench following suit, but that's all. Despite the apparent fact that the place is oddly, jarringly agitated for all that a place shouldn't be able to be anything, it's at least tolerating Jack's presence here.

It takes Jack only about a minute to get to the warehouse through the network. He's been here before, too, and the general atmosphere of the place doesn't bother him like it might had he not already felt what it was like, didn't already know that it carries an echo of Dylan. He trusts Dylan, though, which means he barely pays the air of foreboding any mind as he heads for the work bench, looking for the bottle Dylan mentioned.

The bottle's pretty easy to spot, if only because it slides forward of its own volition as Jack approaches. It's nothing special beyond that, however, just a glass bottle, half-filled with a thick, yellowing liquid. It looks almost like cough syrup. It might almost smell like it, too, strong and sickly sweet, if Jack happens to uncork it. Either way, there's no real indication of what it is beyond that or why Dylan might have wanted it. Even the warehouse gives no subtle clues, its mood unchanging.

Jack blinks at it a moment, a little startled by that despite himself, but then reaches out and takes it. "Thanks," he tells the room at large because he's not sure if that was specifically Dylan or the warehouse itself, but he doesn't want to be on its bad side if it is the warehouse.

He holds the bottle up to consider its contents for a moment before he turns back toward the elevator, to make his way out to meet Dylan, as promised.

The warehouse, unsurprisingly, doesn't respond. It just continues to seethe.

Dylan, too, is brooding when Jack arrives, arms folded over his chest as he leans nearby where the network spits out. Some of his anger disappears, when he hears Jack, sees him, slipping behind a poker face he's had centuries of practice on, but there's something still lingering behind his eyes, something malicious.

"Hey," he calls, moving to meet him.

Jack catches that darkness, and something in him perks up at the sight of it. His eyes don't reflect red like they sometimes do these days when he's angry, but the potential is definitely building. He's definitely on board with whatever Dylan's got in mind. "Hey," he returns, holding the bottle out to him when he gets close enough that it's not awkward.

"Thanks," Dylan grunts, taking the bottle from him. It disappears a moment later and with a flourish, like a card in a trick, banished to some extra-dimensional space, like his sword. He'll recall it again later, when he's ready for it. Right now, pleasantries exchanged, he turns to start towards the jail, jerking his head in its direction for Jack to follow.

"So, a guy got away from me and Mike, today," he starts, an explanation.

"Got away from you, like... chasing him kinda thing or they didn't arrest him when they should have or...?" he asks, curious and wondering what kind of thing they're about to get into. He won't mind chasing a guy down if that's what they're up to, but he's also fine with going to some guy's house and breaking the door down.

"We had court today," Dylan clarifies, stalking ever forward. As they reach some kind of mile marker in his head, he flexes his fingers, claws pushing out from under his nails, the slithering of skin and stretch of bone muted by the fact that he continues, "and the guy just -- fucked us."

He digs the tip of one claw into the palm of his hand on a growl of a breath, more frustrated than pained, and the air around him charges with static and power both. If it's not enough to make Jack's hair stand on end, anymore, a result of primal awe, fear, it's still probably enough to make his hair stand on end more literally. Either way, what he's doing isn't immediately clear, though he obviously did something, as the feeling dissipates a moment later, power discharged.

"He'll be back to running guns and drugs, soon as the press stops riding his dick," he adds. "Or he would, if we weren't gonna take care of him." After they have their fun, of course. He did mention he was having a shitty day and needed to blow off some steam, didn't he?

Jack doesn't react negatively to Dylan's show of power, but he does still shiver faintly at the physical sensation of it, as what he's becoming sits up and pays a little more attention, eager for whatever fight they're headed toward.

He can't help but grin when Dylan gets more specific about that, either, taking a couple of almost skipping steps to catch up with Dylan properly. "Oh, yeah, definitely on board with that," he agrees easily. "I could do with having some fun."

"You comfortable with a little bit of a slow burn?" He knows that Jack's probably more interested in a straight out fight, all things considered, but they may or may not get there. He knows he wants a little bit of torture, somewhere in the mix, but how this starts and how this ends is still up in the air, beyond, in the case of the latter, making it look like a suicide.

"Aw," Jack returns, disappointed, though he smirks a beat later - he's joking with that. "Yeah, no, man, that's totally fine. You got some stuff in mind to do to this guy?"

"Beyond making him suffer?" There's a gravity to that word, a horrible strength that would make lesser men cower, otherworldly. Has he mentioned how pissed off he is that this guy beat him? Or how much he's going to hurt for it? He takes a moment to calm down before he continues, "Not particularly.

"I'm open to suggestions, though." If Jack has anything he wants to try or any little horror he wants to see Dylan inflict.

"Uh..." Jack begins thoughtfully. "Something'll probably come to me when we get there?"

Stabbing the guy in the face sounds good, but it's a little quick for what Dylan seems to have in mind.

"Something involving like... I don't know... breaking all his fingers or something?"

Jack would be surprised. Dylan knows exactly where to stick a knife, to make sure someone lives through it -- including stabbing them in the face. It would probably, oddly be a little more delicate than what Jack has in mind, the strike requiring near-surgical precision, but he could do it. Maybe he'll show him, later. For now, he just nods as they head into the lobby and up towards the counter.

"We can definitely do that."

He pauses, leaning into the speaker set into the glass very slowly, deliberately, and blinks eyes going black. He gives the guard behind the glass a look that lingers a second too long, a cat ready to pounce, and then hisses something low, threatening at him. He twitches, blood running out of his nose in rivers and all at once, and sinks into the desk. Dylan reaches through the glass somehow, pushing him out of the way awkwardly, and hits a button beside him. The door nearby clicks loudly and Dylan pulls his hand back, heading for it.

"Should have brought a nutcracker," he continues finally, as they slip into the jail proper.

Yeah, Jack's sword is a little large for that sort of thing. They can work it out when they get inside, though.

"Cool," he returns, tilting his head to watch Dylan take care of the guard and open the door.

He snorts at Dylan's comment, following him through the door, looking around them curiously as they go, energy building around him as the anticipation does (If there's a prison riot later, he'll probably only accidentally have something to do with it.). "There's probably, like.. a vice or something in the tools out at the warehouse."

"I've definitely got a blacksmith's vise," he agrees thoughtfully, trying idly to recall if he has something smaller as he leads the way back towards the main cell block. This time of night, still too early for lights out, there are a handful of inmates loitering in the common area, a bored-looking guard nearby, keeping watch. For now, they don't seem to notice them, though Dylan looks as though he's considering making sure they do and suffer for it, like the guard up front did, or --

He pauses, wheeling on Jack, and takes a moment to study him, raking his tongue over his teeth as he does. When he seems to find what he's looking for, he asks, "You wanna start some shit here? Little appetizer for the main course?" Jack can either try and start that riot now, purposefully, or he can let the guards see them and they can start a fight with their fists rather than magic. He can keep the sound from further down, closer to the cells, so their actual target won't try and escape in the chaos, and they can make it look like just a riot, later, so no one guesses this all was planned and not just a series of unhappy coincidences.

Jack takes a step back as Dylan stops, arching an eyebrow back at him, though he glances past him to the others in the room after a moment. When he goes on, Jack just grins. "You mind?" he asks like he doesn't already know the answer - because yeah, he would not mind starting something now with the people here.

Dylan steps back, himself, turns back to face the floor, and makes a sweeping gesture out over it. "Be my guest." He'd really like to see what Jack can do.

Jack smirks back at him for another moment and then turns away, the smirk falling into something more dangerous as he looks over the inmates and guards. After a moment, he hums softly and starts forward. He passes one of the guards and reaches out to tap him on the shoulder and keeps moving toward two of the inmates with their heads down over a game of chess.

He stops beside them, watching for a moment - and then nods to one of them while looking at the other. "You should kick his ass," he says simply.

The inmate Jack spoke to goes abruptly still - and then all but jumps to his feet, reaching out to grab the other man by the back of the head and slam him face first into the table.

The guard Jack tapped rushes over, baton already in hand, and the three of them set immediately to brawling. Jack takes a few steps backward to get out of their way but otherwise keeps watching, grinning, pleased with himself.

((that was a big ol' 20. XD))

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