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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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))

Dylan reaches out with his own magic, weaving a silencing barrier around the edges of the room to keep the sounds of fighting from echoing deeper into the prison. That done, he drifts after Jack, weaving through the inmates as he not-quite-follows him. For as close as he isn't getting, however, not wanting to distract him or get underfoot, his attentions are solely fixed on him, and when Jack sets the inmates on each other, Dylan lets out a breath of a laugh, pleased and delighted, both, a parent elated at seeing their child take their first steps.

"Good," Dylan hums, smirking, himself. He shifts a bit, all at once restless, wanting to join in, to take a turn sending someone into a rage. He manages to restrain himself, however, mostly because, "Think you can keep going?" He wonders how many people Jack can infect before he reaches the current limits of his power.

Jack looks over at Dylan, grin growing a little. "Oh yeah," he returns simply. As some of the other inmates start toward the fight, moving past him, he reaches out to pat them both on the shoulders. Both of them immediately start into the brawl, and Jack moves on. It's actually taking him less effort as he goes, some of the inmates starting in on each other without him even needing to influence them.

It doesn't take long before the whole room is in chaos.

Dylan watches with interest, his own grin growing in measures as Jack continues. By the time the room has descended into a full-on brawl, he's practically bouncing in his excitement and as he steps up to Jack again.

"Nice," he drawls, looking between Jack, the fight and back again. After a beat, he offers, "Up to you whether or not we jump in." He can wait on his half of things. His mood has already improved light years, seeing Jack at work and work successfully.

"Uh... either way?" he returns after a moment. He's pretty happy just having started this, honestly, if Dylan wants to get on to the main course.

"If it's still going, when we come back this way," Dylan decides after a moment. He'd like to jump in, but he wants to get on with why they came more. Maybe they can take on the last man standing, later. Either way, however, that decided, he starts forward again, dancing through the fight untouched as he heads deeper into the prison.

Jack nods, looking over the fight again, smirking a little to himself, pleased with his work, before he moves to follow Dylan on through the room and back toward the other cells.

Dylan leads on, downing another guard, albeit this time without touching him, as they pass. The cell block door stands open, beyond, and he continues on, pausing at the sound of voices, albeit briefly. As they get closer, well, it seems their target isn't alone, a casual conversation apparent, now, as they round the corner. Dylan really isn't surprised, considering Jones isn't being held, now, so much as protected, but it still tanks his mood again. If he wasn't going to kill Jones before, it'd be a sure thing, now.

Raking his tongue over his teeth, he quickens his pace, and sooner rather than later, the stage sets itself as follows: a white man with dark hair and a beard sits in a chair on the wrong side of an open cell door. His clothing is casual, not prison fatigues, normalcy restored to him in the form of a button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. Across from him, on the outside of the cell, is a smaller, gaunter, more tanned man, in khakis, a t-shirt and cowboy boots. A cigarette, unlit, dangles from two fingers as he leans forward, over his knees. The first is Jones; the second, Dylan doesn't entirely recognize, but he can guess. He's one of Jones's buddies, and he's a dead man, too.

Either way, they stop talking as he and Jack approach, as Dylan lets them see them, and glance over at him. Jones immediately smiles, the expression purposefully unpleasant. "Oh, hey, Fed." A beat, a nod to Jack. "Feds." And another. "How's it going?"

Jack follows along after him, practically bouncing as they move through the halls. He can't keep the amusement off his face as Dylan drops the next guard - or his displeasure when he sees the man they're clearly actually here for.

"You look comfortable," he drawls, and something flickers behind his eyes again, his shadow shifting slightly. Yeah, he just wants to shank these guys.

Jones shifts a little, tensing, something conscious or unconscious picking up on the change in Jack and his shadow. He manages a shrug, meant to be easy but anything but, and keeps his mouth shut otherwise, as a result. Jones's friend, meanwhile, leans forward a little, either not registering that subtle shift in Jack or welcoming it, his history of violence leading him to believe he'd find a friend in War. Either way, he studies Jack for a moment, and then snorts.

"He ain't no Fed," he tells Jones, jerking his head in Jack's direction. "He's one of those magicians that were on the news a little while back." Pausing, smiling, he looks to Dylan. "You on the take, Fed?"

Dylan doesn't seem bothered by the fact that Jones's friend called him out, though he doesn't answer, either, not really. The hum he gives is ambiguous at best, the shrug a mirror of Jones's, though with much less fear involved.

Jack might be more bothered if he didn't know neither of these two are long for this world. He just smirks a little. "Just a little sightseeing trip. Y'know, returning the favor for the fun we cooked up for him."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Jones's friend wonders. He's not sure if that's a confirmation or denial that Dylan is dirty, but he'd like clarification. He doesn't want Jones to get stupid and say something incriminating if Dylan isn't on their side, after all, and he can almost feel it building with his discomfort.

"It means I'm planning on torturing both of you to death, and I thought Jack might wanna tag along," Dylan answers bluntly, smiling. Jones and his friend share a look, baffled, not sure whether or not Dylan is serious. He's a cop, after all, but -- what?

"And I obviously did, because I was kinda bored and haven't gotten to start much shit yet," Jack returns just as seriously. "I mean, beyond what we started out there." He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, back toward the main cell block.

Jones and his friend share another glance, then the latter starts to stand, albeit unhurriedly, not running but apparently interested in checking on whatever Jack might be talking about. He doesn't get terribly far, however, as with a, "Hey, huh uh," the chair he was sitting on springs to some semblance of life, its legs twisting around his with a screech of metal. Jones's friend goes down on his stomach, all at once breathless, and Jones, himself, scrambles to his feet. Dylan catches his eyes, shaking his head, and the door to the cell slams shut before he can ever clear it.

"You don't need to worry about what's going on out there," Dylan tells him, casually. He turns towards Jack, that said, and ever-nonchalant, asks, "So, you got any ideas?" He knows they talked about breaking all of his fingers, but that was before they knew he'd brought a friend.

"Hm," Jack hums thoughtfully, looking down at Jones's friend. "This guy first, let him watch? Kinda already did the whole... 'kick his ass' thing out there or that might be fun, too." Watching them tear each other apart, he means, but variety is a good thing.

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