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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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.

"Maybe later, yeah," Dylan confirms. Maybe after he's done with them, he'll put them back together and let Jack make them turn on each other. Maybe he'll just have him get in Jones's friend's head, so they can see the look on Jones's face when he comes at him, and more importantly, make it all look that much less suspicious. Jones will have legitimate defensive wounds and his friend will have legitimately killed him. Nothing strange here, just business.

Maybe, but they can decide later.

Right now, Dylan shifts, and the chair shifts with him, howling as it wraps more completely around Jones's friend, still trying to catch his breath on the floor, and then slithers upright, pulling him with it. Dylan leans in as he starts struggling, albeit without hope, the chair too solid, too tight now, and hooks a thumb under his jaw. He pushes his claw into his skin hard enough to draw blood and a whimper out of him, as he turns his head to force him to really look at him. If he didn't notice the black of Dylan's eyes before, he sure as hell does now, and Dylan hums, darkly pleased.

"Jesus Christ," someone breathes. Even Dylan's not sure if it's Jones or his friend.

"Not quite," Dylan tells him. A beat, then to Jack, he asks, "You wanna go look for that vice we talked about? Pair of nutcrackers, maybe?" Jack might be able to find the former here, in the machine shop.

Jack watches with interest as the chair comes to further life, as Dylan puts his claw through the man's chin.

"Yeah," he returns with a grin. "I'll be right back. Don't get too far along without me."

He's not worried about getting through the prison on his own right now, and he turns, heading back out of the cell block.

It won't actually take him long before he's back - but he comes bearing more than just the vice, having found that, yes, but also a full tool belt that he's actually wearing. He's also carrying a box of nails.

Dylan, in Jack's absence, has let himself into Jones's cell, his friend out of mind for the moment and as they wait for Jack to return, and is standing on the ceiling above him. Gravity, it seems, doesn't seem to be much of a problem for him, hair and clothing still perfectly in place. The bottle he's holding, returned from where ever he banished it to, on the other hand, is very much still in its grip, and every time Dylan takes a drink of it, it spits a handful of errant drops onto the floor. Where it hits, it hisses, and every time, Jones jumps, his breathing routinely terrified. It's hard to tell whether Dylan is what's bothering him, if a little bit of the liquid landed on him, in Jack's absence, and he's learned his lesson, or both.

Either way, however, the bottle disappears again as Jack returns, and Dylan stalks across the ceiling up towards the bars. He squints at Jack and the toys he brought, trying to make sense of them upside down, and then smiles, approvingly. "Nice."

"I thought about bringing some of the bigger stuff, but I couldn't find a cart," he returns, and it's hard to tell if he means that or if he's just trying to further terrify Jones and his friend. "You look like you're having fun," he adds with a grin up at Dylan.

"You try bringing it with you, when you popped out?" Teleporting it here with him, he means. Either way, with a nod to Jack's tool belt, he continues, "I mean, I know there's probably a power drill in there, somewhere, but think of what we could do with a drill press."

He doesn't honestly expect Jack to go back, looking for one. He is just trying to wind Jones and his friend up further. It seems to be working, too, if the fact that Jones's friend starts struggling again, is any indication.

"Thought about it, but I didn't want to drop anything," he returns easily. "I can always go back for it if we get bored."

He's also trying to help rile them up more, considering he's suggesting they're going to be at this for a while.

"So, what's first?"

"Works for me," Dylan decides with a shrug.

A moment of pause follows, no more than a heartbeat, and then just as quick, he's right-side up again, and standing next to Jack on this side of the bars. Raking his tongue over his teeth, he looks thoughtful for another beat, glancing between Jones and his friend, then finally, he returns his attentions to Jack, asks, "How long do you think it's been since he's had a hit?"

He's not sure what kind of drugs Jones's friend is on, but he'd eat Merritt's hat, if someone told him he wasn't using something.

Jack doesn't startle when Dylan reappears by him, just tilting his head to consider Jones's friend. "I dunno? Few hours, at least? He's probably starting to feel it by now."

He looks to Dylan. "What're you thinking?"

Dylan makes a so-so gesture.

"We could ratchet the withdrawal up, so everything sucks that much more -- " Though, that runs the risk of keeping Jones's friend from being able to enjoy the experience beyond the withdrawal. " -- or I could burn the drugs out of him completely, before we start, so he's clear." When the withdrawal might be fun to watch. There are pros and cons, either way, and he's curious as to which Jack thinks might be better.

Jack thinks for a moment, considering Jones's friend. "I dunno," he begins after a minute. "You could help him out, get the drugs out of the way."

And yes, he knows that's not really helping, but he's definitely getting something out of the idea of being cruel.

Catching Jones's friend's chin between his fingers, he puts a hand on the back of his head, too, to steady him and leans into him, smiling terribly. Before he actually does anything, however, he glances back at Jack again. It's hard to tell if he honestly wants to clarify, or if he's just stealing time, trying to build up the fear, but either way, Dylan asks, "So, I'm nixing the drugs and getting him through the withdrawal?"

"Could be fun," Jack agrees with a half-shrug. "He's probably been through this kinda thing before when his dealer wouldn't pick up, right?"

"Pretty sure that was just withdrawal, not ... " Not powering him through it.

Either way, Dylan shrugs as he trails off, and turns back to Jones's friend, hand coming away from his jaw. He keeps him in place, still, with the fingers of his other hand digging into his scalp, and pricks the palm of his hand with his claws, slicking his fingers in blood. Jones's friend has the nerve to spit at him, then, and Dylan huffs, incredulous, as he reaches up to swipe the back of his hand over his face. The grin returns a moment later, crueler still, and he begins etching something on the man's forehead, muttering under his breath as he goes. If Jack can understand any of it, it's something like Merritt might have whispered to a victim, back when he was just hypnotizing people, swift and seductive and sick. He can feel Jones's friend tense under his fingers, and tightens his hold for a moment, before letting go.

Jones's friend immediately breaks out into a sweat that has nothing to do with anything Dylan's said or done, and he lets him go, looking satisfied. He's helping him through the withdrawal, sure, but he has to go through to get out, and it's all going to happen rapid fire. Dylan really hopes he survives it.

"I feel like I shoulda hit up the break room and found some popcorn or something," Jack puts in as he watches Dylan work, a smirk on his face, that red glow flickering somewhere deep in his eyes.

"If you're gonna make a popcorn run, you'd better do it quick," Dylan tells him from over his should, his attentions still mostly on Jones's friend. His lips twitch upwards absently as he, too, twitches as if someone dropped a bucket full of ants on him, and mostly for his own benefit, Dylan mutters, "Gonna guess you were on more than just the one thing, huh?"

Somewhere behind him, whether he heard that or not, Jones breathes, "What the hell did you do to him?"

"Someone wasn't paying attention," Dylan tells Jack, still off-handedly.

"Nah, think I'm good," Jack offers, equally distracted as he watches Jones's friend. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

He means both that Jones's friend was on something else and that Jones himself wasn't paying attention. He looks to Jones, now, though. "He's just helping him out, man," he offers with a grin that could cut glass.

"Don't worry," Dylan promises, the smile on his face the sort of thing that would set anyone on edge, despite his words, "he'll be fine here in a few minutes."

He pauses, glancing back at Jones's friend as he makes a small, distressed noise, pulling against his restrains a little as if he's trying to get away from something. Whatever it is, though, is clearly not Dylan as he isn't looking at him at all. No, his attentions are focused on his arms, his hands as his fingers flex and curl ineffectually. He's soaked through his shirt, now, beyond that.

Turning back to Jones, Dylan looks thoughtful for a moment before he amends, "Well, maybe." Never mind the fact that, if he does try to escape through death, Dylan will drag him back, kicking and screaming. He has his hooks in him, now; he did before, for all that he's going to Hell when he dies. Dylan has owned him for a long time, even if no deal was ever made between them.

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