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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

Being more than a little tipsy, that foggy fuzziness doubles when Not-Vince cracks him in the head.
A lesser man might have called it quits with that, falling over half dazed. Not Cade. He does find a grip along the hitman to keep his bearings, long enough to sock him in the gut. Except it doesn't land there and Cade wasn't exactly not aiming there.
A win is a win.
With the guy pressed along Cade's shoulders, it almost is a hug. A weird one. For half a moment, Not-Vince needs to recover and it allows Cade to unravel from the torso he was bear hugging.

"Hey," he pants, squeezing the body between his chest and the unforgiving wall. When was the last time he had a fight like this? "Be impressed I landed a hit on something that tiny."
That's below the belt, but par for the course. Cade's not above being an ass.

Neither is NV. The assassin goes for his throat, and not to grip like a normal person. Its like the motherfucker is trying to draw blood.
Cade sacrifices a hand to grip at the one cutting the blood to his head.
Which, as it turns out, is the wrong move.
He knows that.

The Dog's back meets with the wall, the assassin clacking his head into brick with the grip on his throat. Cade clamps his hands down on the man's arm, squeezes.
Clawing at somebody's arm in a hold like this is how you die.
You go for their throat, solar plexus, nose or eyes. Especially the eyes.
Even the groin again, if you want.

But Cade likes going for the eyes.

His hands nearly leave the wrist their collaring before he pauses, swallowing around the grip.

The man pinning him to the wall to watch the life leave his face has striking green eyes.
Like, leprechaun green eyes.
It's not usually something he notices.

The Dog drags in a wheezing breath, half surprised he still can.
They're still sparing, playing.
The air becomes that much harder to grab when Vince-who-actually-isn't-Vince lifts a hand to touch Cade's chin.
Cradle it, almost.
Cade glares at him, hard. It's not enough he gets him like this, he needs to humiliate him on top of it?
 
Successfully reversing the hold is incredibly gratifying - hell, this is the most pleasure Neil has gotten out of anything in a long while. All thanks to this guy. The hitman looks Wolf up and down as he holds him against the wall, cutting off his flow of air. Not enough to make him pass out or do permanent damage, simply enough to see the man squirm, gripping onto his arm... when he probably should be clawing at his face. MacDarragh tilts his head and his eyes find the tattoo, there beneath his thumb. The hitman rubs his finger over the ink to trace it, almost in a caress and the choke begins to release. Not the hold itself, though, not yet.

Neil moves his hand up to cup Wolf's chin, pinning him in place. He's smiling, but it's not like earlier - it's not the facade of easy-going friendliness he usually puts on. No, he meets the gangster's glaring blue eyes with a sharp smirk, one not many people get to see. He's earned it.

It's at that exact moment that the bastard decides it's the right time to bite.

Teeth dig into Neil's flesh, right in that tender area between thumb and index finger. He deserves it, he got too close. Like an animal with rabies, Wolf starts gnawing on him, hard enough to draw blood. Hard enough to leave a mark. Yet the bite doesn't make the hitman release his grip - it does the opposite. He holds on tightly to Wolf's face, fingers digging into his jaw and cheeks. MacDarragh pulls the gangster's head forward before slamming it into the wall. The action is doubtlessly painful for both of them - Wolf because he's being bashed, Neil because the teeth holding onto him dig even further, clamping down. Maybe involuntarily, maybe not. If possible, Neil's grin widens as he winces.

He's gearing up to repeat the same thing when a ringing resounds, rudely interrupting the intimacy of this little fight. It's his phone. Shit.

Neil clicks his tongue in displeasure, briefly closing his eyes. The instant he opens them back up, he gives his opponent an almost apologetic grimace. He lets go of Wolf, letting the gangster find his footing against the wall. The device is already out.

"It's done," MacDarragh speaks into the phone, softly, calmly. Whoever is on the other end seems to talk for a bit, progressively losing Neil's interest the longer they go on. He hums half-heartedly, "Understood."

Sighing, the hitman walks to the side, picking up the handgun he'd dropped earlier. The fresh bitemark throbs as he grips the weapon and aims it at the heads of the two men still alive on the ground, unconscious. Two shots go off, muffled by the silencer. Job done. The firearm gets holstered in its rightful place and Neil brings his sore hand up to suck on the injury Wolf has left him with. Partially in order to lap up the blood. Mostly not for that reason. The hitman's gaze lands on the Black Dog once more, staring for what feels like too long.

Eventually, he frees up his mouth to speak.

"This was fun," MacDarragh smiles, crow's feet prominent around his eyes, "I'll be seeing you, Wolf."

The hitman turns to leave. He doesn't want to, but he has to. A thought lingers in his mind - if the two hadn't been forced to stop, who would have come out on top? A final bit of exhilaration runs down his spine.

A cigarette finds its way into MacDarragh's mouth and he lights it, the nicotine buzz prolonging the satisfaction of the fight's afterglow. It's the same reason people smoke after sex. It's to extend the feeling.
 
Cade's not the kind of guy who disappoints. He's also not someone who backs down once forced into a corner.
He said he bites, so he's gonna fucking bite.

Its the gummy webbing if the hand he gets ahold of. A little squirt of blood fills his mouth and he traces the tear with his tongue.
Cade smiles through his teeth at the hitman.
He smiles back, actually smiles.
And then proceeds to knock the absolute shit out of Cade.
A sharp groan leaks out of his gagged mouth and he hates that he's the first one to make a noise like that, that this guy can feel the soft echo of such a human sound against his hand.

Give him five minutes and Cade will be on top of this guy instead, smothering him with a hand so he can feel him scream-

And just like that its over.
The gangster hinges his mouth open, closed and tastes his hard won copper. With blood borne sickness a thing he really shouldn't, but he doesn't want to waste it.
Cade feels at his jaw as NV takes an honest to God phone call.
Cade could fuck him up and he's on the phone. The worst part is the Dog's too disoriented by the abrupt end to do just that. It would seem...Fuck, if he knows, rude? Maybe?
To the hitman's credit he seems just as irritated if the return of his haughty demeanor is any indication.

The Dog feels gingerly at the back of his head, pinpricks of hair scratching along his palm.
The warmth is not just the heat built up from a good fight. His fingers come away red.
It's not a bad cut, head wounds just bleed a lot.
The assassin sucks on his hand which isn't that weird, Cade's does that a lot. Kaden always has to get his mouth off a wound because of some dramatic infection talk. Apparently the human mouth is a cesspit of disease. Cade doesn't care of its dirty, it feels good.
This guy agrees, but he makes some really fucking weird eye contact while he does it. It makes that thrill rattle up and down Cade's spine like he's a human xylophone.

"Not if I see you first!" Admittedly, he pulls that one out of his ass. It's not his best, but its far from his worst.
Cade watches the man leave. Some primal instinct in him says to chase and if Not-Vince gave into the urge to jog, the Dog would have to. It's as simple as that.
When he turns the corner, Cade licks at his lip. He's not sure which one of them got away. Somehow, this feels half finished.

"Right," he sighs to himself. Like a wet dog, he shakes the jitters out. "Fucking guy..."

Pulling his phone free, the Dog takes snapshots of the poor bastards lining the floor.
The beating they took mean there's precious little left to identify them, but Cade can't find any insignias otherwise. He takes some wallets, but there's no guarantees the I.Ds won't be fake.
It's the best he can do under the circumstances.

Cade takes the shotgun for two reasons; he likes it and and he wants a memento.
 
---

The air is growing heavy with the smell of igniting nitroglycerin, crackling with the sounds of several weapons firing at once. All around it's chaotic and loud, the noise pollution enough to cause hearing damage if the bullets don't do some lethal damage of their own first. In a frenzy like this, someone is bound to get got. That would be the case, anyway, if the firearms weren't all obediently unloading down their own personal lanes following safety protocol, their wielders geared out with eye and ear protection.

After all, this isn't a gang war, just practice for one - training for a self-destructive endeavor Damien sees as absolutely counterproductive. Nevertheless, he shoots. Not like he had much say in that decision, getting hassled into coming to the hangar-turned-firing range, or more so dragged here out of the penthouse half-asleep. Well, that last part is inaccurate - he didn't get much rest last night to be even half asleep. Maybe he can use that deprivation as an excuse for why he isn't doing so well - the bullets are landing, just not where he wants them to. The periphery of the human-shaped outline is getting perforated, yet its center remains mostly untouched. An even better excuse could be the fact he hasn't done proper target practice in 15 years and his skills have rusted over.

Where was this inaccuracy last night?

Damien's arm twitches and the next shot goes way off, hitting the far wall - it's a blessing the Black Dog's private range is quality, otherwise it could have ricocheted back. Could have possibly hit someone. The ex-cop's hands around the gun handle squeeze and he lets the weapon drop - his grip is both too shaky to keep going, yet holding on too tightly to let go. The same way it'd been when he was running away from MacDarragh like a scrambling rodent, or when he'd gotten trigger-happy in a blind panic and shot the wrong cop.

Conley is- was someone's Michael. The young man had reminded Damien of that unbearable reality when he'd visited in the night, bleeding and cold-

The ex-convict swallows down the bile rising up his throat. No, Conley is collateral. He needs to keep repeating that until it becomes the truth, there's nothing else he can do.

Damien takes one long inhale of air, holding his breath in. From the booths down the line, higher caliber rounds are still going off, some at sturdier targets, as the Black Dogs take out their new fancy acquisitions for a spin, courtesy of the weapons dealer Finch had requested yesterday. He can't see the mobsters' faces isolated by the half-walls as every man is, so it doesn't take the ex-cop much to imagine that Michael is the one standing in the neighboring cell, just beyond the grey reinforced surface. Kell had always been the better shot between the two, a fact he used to gloat about. One of the few things he could gloat about, as Damien kept reminding him, not that it curbed his bravado. Mike's aim had remained his ace until Blumenthal took it upon himself to practice day and night, all so that he could outdo his best friend.

The S&W's barrel seeks out the target again, firm in a clean, practical hold. This time the bullets land.

It hadn't taken long for Michael to follow in his friend's example and strive to get back on top in their small competition. The two policemen used to push each other like that. Well, possibly a more fitting word to describe it pulling - one gets ahead, his hand reaches back to grab the other one and yank him further forward, and so on and so forth. Partners. They made each other want to be better. When was the last time Blumenthal worked on himself?

Michael's unseen form in the booth suddenly shifts into Kaden, and despite being surprised at his own self, Damien's next shot strikes true as well. The capo makes him want to be better too, but it's not the brotherly rivalry he'd had with Kell. Maybe in the beginning - after the brief instant the man was simply a means to an end - Finch had been a surrogate for Michael, a person to latch onto because the ex-cop glimpsed something familiar. Unbeknownst to him, that something has been tinged a different shade entirely. Still, the fact remains - the ex-convict wants to work with Kaden, and he means to prove he can handle himself. Be an asset.

Just as Damien is getting in the groove of things, he goes to fire again only to be met by an empty click. The pistol's run out of ammo. Makes sense, this model can only hold so many rounds. The entire hangar appears to be quieting down from gunfire (if not from voices), at least for the time being - the range is called cold and the Black Dogs retreat to go grab more options from the vendor, like shopping for new clothes, while the ventilation system works overtime to clean the air. With a press of the panel next to his head, Damien gets his target moving back and as soon as it's within range he takes it off its carrier mechanism. The holes in the cardboard tell a story - rough start, good ending. It's nowhere near enough.

Taking off the sound-canceling headphones, Damien turns around to look at Cade - the man responsible for harassing him into doing shooting practice, and the one taking charge of this little exercise as the second in command. The ex-convict finds himself eager to continue.

"You have more .22 cartridges?" he stares back down at the target, silent for a moment, "And do you mind giving me some pointers? I need a refresher."
 
The grenade is light in his hand. Deceptively harmless looking. The grenade launcher is less so. It's a massive weapon, one that puts his workout regiment to shame when he carries it for any length of time.

The Nakurra have been whittled down over the years.
The Black Dogs have the numbers, but before this the clan had the better weapons. As bizarre as it sounds violence on this scale isn't as common as one would think.
Mostly, Kaden buries a few dozen people a year and they're slimy dealers who got into their own stash or squealers who go to prison.

He's embarrassingly unfamiliar with weapons of this caliber.

Cade isn't.
Like a child in a candy store his eyes have gleamed since walking in and they haven't abated.
Each target is riddled with three bullets; crotch, chest, head.
With the M-16 filling his arms, the precise bullets turn into a spray, but all landing in the same place.

He came home with a shotgun.

And other troubling news. Why is it always Cade who comes with news, and why is it always so bad?
He recognizes one of the bodies on his screen; a low level gangster that's had run ins with the Black Dogs, none of them serious enough to punch back harder than necessary.

It's common for petty gangs to fight with one another, like raccoons crowding a trash bin.
This seems different.

Cade unloads his weapon, locks it into safety before setting it down amongst the array of weapons he had been excited to familiarize himself with.
He pops over to Damien's side, his ego well stroked to hear the man asking for his help.
"Everyone hold your fire," Cade booms, as if it's needed.

Taking a cartridge of ammo, he joins Damien in his booth.
"I thought you'd never ask. Your stance is driving me nuts."

Cade welcomes himself into Damien's booth. With a critical eye, he looks at the damage made to Damien's target. They haven't seen eye to eye; Finch isn't entirely sure why, but this Cade respects. Or understands.

Kaden can almost relate to that indignant displeasure and confusion.
Especially this morning.
Something's bothering Damien, as much as something's bothering Kaden. Neither of them ate much and Damien's been uncharacteristically quiet.

It must be because of Moore.

His purpose in life is gone, and this is all he has left.
Kaden is all he has left. Finch would be perturbed too.

"You have muscle memory using the Weaver stance- which is fine, if you're still a cop," Cade explains.
Weaver stance being one foot forward, one foot back, body bladed to the threat. It's common amongst shooters that have been professionally trained.

"No matter how much armor you're wearing your vulnerable right here-" Shamelessly, Cade tickles under Damien's left arm. The man's never had any respect for personal space, or maybe it's Kaden who has the unrealistic standards.
Last night, he wanted to touch Damien. He's never wanted to touch anyone.
Hopefully it was a fleeting experience; wanting something doesn't make it any less uncomfortable and trying to maneuver through such a psychological conflict wouldn't be enjoyable.
But Cade does it like it's no big deal.
The sensation of his breath tickling his ear comes to mind and Finch has to suppress a shiver.

"Seen lots of cops die from getting shot in the armpit. It goes straight to the heart at this angle," he says, as a man who's frequently done that very thing to many people.

"It took me a while but I made the fighter stance my go-to. Flex your knees, lean forward, arms up. It's basically what you already do but-" Cade politely pushes at Damien's left foot, bringing it in closer.

"Unless you have a shotgun, the feet don't need to be this wide apart to compensate for recoil."
Beside Damien, the gangster mimics the same position, sans gun.
It's a military technique, one adopted by police recently.

Kaden holds in a breath, letting it out slowly.
Delilah taught him the same stance, and all it's variances.

It isn't long after that a Black Dog walks onto the firing range, shoving forward a hooded captive.
It's better than hanging a dead pig, cheaper as well.

Once in the center the Black Dog member kicks the back of the prisoner's leg, dropping him to his knees.

"Do you want the hood on or off?" He yells down the firing range, voice echoing in a strange way.

Cade, who's loading Damien's S&W pauses to consider.
"Ask him."

It's hard to hear the muffled, "off, off, please. Off." It sounds more like worried animal murmuring from this distance.
The Black Dog obliges, tugging the bag off to reveal the bloodied face underneath.
He's not necessarily young, but he's not old either, as well as Kaden can see from this distance.

The situation the man's in dawns on him and he has to be punched multiple times before he stays in place, kneeling.
Kaden goes back to his phone, scrolling.

"You sick fucks!" His hoarse voice grates. In a moment of desperation, the accent he was trying to hide comes back and frantic Japanese takes the place of his English muttering.

Cade aims down the line with Damien's gun. The Black Dog standing there backs away, despite Cade's substantial reputation as an ace shot.
The Nakurra flinches, whines, as if any amount of bracing could protect him.
The second in command lowers the weapon, back rigid. Generously, he offers the gun back Damien.

"Go ahead, make daddy proud."
 
Cade gets into his personal space without warning, but Damien doesn't flinch as the Black Dog physically adjusts his stance, even though being jabbed in the armpit is crossing some lines. It's fine, the man is playing the role of an instructor right now, as requested. That's the thing that actually takes the ex-cop aback - the second in command's willingness to oblige. He was gearing up for some comments on Cade's side, maybe some hazing. Instead, the gangster freely gives out pointers.

Damien listens to his advice intently, nodding along and following directions. It feels weird to have something ingrained into his muscle memory slightly shifted here and there, but he can adapt. He watches Cade take this altered stance right beside him and the ex-cop practices the movements for getting into position several times over, first with the S&W then without the gun once the Black Dog takes it to be reloaded. As if Damien couldn't do that himself.

Nevertheless, he takes the time to keep feeling things out. The new stance does feel better, more efficient, and allows for better flexibility at the knees to pivot. It'll take him a bit to break old habits, but Damien's up for the challenge. It'll be like old times, spending all day at the shooting range with a goal in mind.

He glances out of the corner of his eye at Cade. It's obvious the man knows his way around firearms, intimately, and he isn't half-shabby at teaching how to use them either. On the contrary.

"How'd you get on the force, Cade?" Damien questions, genuinely curious. Cause there are two ways, at least in most states - via getting a college degree like he and Kell had done, or after some military service like what Montesano had opted for.

However, before he can start having small talk with the Black Dog in earnest, a figure steps onto the firing lanes. Two figures. It takes Damien's brain a bit too long to grasp exactly what is happening, not because it isn't obvious, but because this is a staggering level of cruelty. When the bound Nakurra calls the Black Dogs sick fucks, he can't help but agree. Who came up with this? Who authorized it?

The words that leave Cade's mouth as he hands the S&W over fill Damien with further disgust, making a shiver run down his spine.

"Are you serious?" he locks eyes with the shorter man, scowling.

That's a pointless question, of course he's fucking serious. That man is the Dogs' enemy - by the state of his face, he has been thoroughly beaten already, likely questioned, so the natural conclusion is to dispose of him. Yet, to eliminate someone in such a fashion... it goes beyond the level of gang violence Damien would anticipate. And now he's expected to carry out the execution. Is Cade testing him or is this a form of punishment for the ex-cop as much as it is for the Nakurra? He's been put in a position where he can't back down. There are eyes on him.

Is Kaden watching?

Damien quits stalling before Cade can take the initiative on this. Raising the gun back up, the ex-cop gives his newly taught stance a go. Halfway down the room, Conley stares back at him with the same expression Moore had - shocked, gaping. Damien steadies himself. Things are supposed to be easier the second time around.

Three shots ring out - two to the chest in close succession, then a last one to the head, sending the kneeling image of Conley toppling backward, his expression finally out of sight. Last night the ex-convict hadn't checked the status of the young policeman, fleeing the scene in a daze. Currently, there's no need to check the dead clan member. It gives Damien some small comfort to think he ended things fast. A pitiful amount of comfort.

"This was unnecessary," he spits out at Cade, clicking on the manual safety of the S&W and then unloading the weapon's clip into his palm.

Not looking at the body, Damien swivels around to exit the booth, any earlier fervor to keep training evaporating for the time being. Instead, he moves to grab the bore brush and patches he'd used to clean the engraved gun at the start of practice. It's important to do regular maintenance on something like this, and if Damien can't rub his hands clean then taking care of the gun will have to suffice.

Starting on that process, the ex-cop's gaze sweeps over the hangar, eventually landing on who he is looking for - Kaden. Scrolling through his fucking phone.

"Live target practice, really?" Damien steps towards the capo, voice dropping into a hissed whisper once he's close enough, "I can't believe you're going forward with this. The city hasn't seen such a high level of gang violence since the 60s."
 
Cade whistles appreciatively when the body goes down. The bullets cut off the scream timely, but the Nakurra will still twitch for a time.
Echos of a life now gone echoing through the extremities.

"That was gre-" Cade starts, abruptly stopping when Damien no doubt turns on him aggressively.
Kaden has decided not to look up; it's not important enough to justify his attention.

Until Damien comes to him to force his attention.

The capo studies the ex-cop closely, tilting his head in thought.
"That's because I wasn't alive in the 70's, Damien."

Maybe it is the impending violence that has Damien worked up. Revenge is one thing, but war is another.
The capo holds in a breath, folding his hair back with a hand before letting it drop.

"If we don't strike, they will. I'm being preemptive, it's the right course of action."
He speaks like he's trying to convince Damien as well as himself.
And even if he is wrong, the Nakurra are too weak and useless to stand by themselves now. They have an inexperienced leader, and they're boxed in between the Black Dogs and the High-Rise.

But Damien brought up a considerable point that yes, the gang could take on the clan, but not the High-Rise.
Not by itself, and definitely not after going through a gang war.

But Kaden has no choice.

Damien is tired around the eyes. He notices that when it's the last thing he should.
Kaden's not egocentric enough to assume it was because of their fight.

"I'm not going to force you to do something you can't do," he murmurs, trying to put some softness in a voice that's not accustomed to it.
He glances up where some of his men are removing the body, zipping it up into a bag to keep the fluids from draining all over the place.

"You have no stake in this fight. I don't expect you to kill for it if it causes you this much emotional distress."
 
"You're making a mistake," Damien frowns.

Maybe he's wasting his breath. Finch seems pretty set in his ways - there's a glimmer of trepidation as he tries to convince the ex-cop of the need for a turf war, yet seconds before that the capo had more or less compared himself to the Five Families, whose era came to an end in 1970. The mafia should have fallen with them, yet here Kaden stands, a modern-day crime boss. It's silly, how that fact occasionally eludes Damien when the consigliere allows himself to be human and say things that are way too vulnerable.

When Kaden softens his voice only to call Damien emotionally distressed, the ex-convict tenses. He scoffs, looking down at the gun in his hands, the one he's been absentmindedly scrubbing down. He hasn't field-stripped it, only partially disassembled it in order to run a patch over its nooks and crannies. His eyes focus on the process.

Does it show that he's shaken? That would be humiliating. Damien's lips flatten into a line. He has to believe this isn't something he can't do. It's a brand new position to be in, sure, but the ex-convict is constantly being faced with one unfamiliar high-stakes situation after another, so much so that it's becoming the new norm. He's going to be fine, just needs to get himself under control. He peeks at Kaden. Has the capo been in a conflict like this - the man is a violent career criminal, yet Damien has to question his experience.

"I'm not "distressed", I'm rational. You all are being played like a fiddle, Kaden."

Based on the giddiness testing out weapons had caused them, the gangsters are fighting dogs foaming at the mouth for a taste of blood. This doesn't feel like two rival organizations going at each other, however - it's like a blood sport to be put on for someone else's entertainment. Fighting dogs, as ferocious as they are, still have masters. The Black Dogs and the Nakurra are animals boxed into their own corner of Manhattan, their own pen, and are about to let loose tearing each other apart as whoever this benefits watches on from the sidelines. Damien can't know why this is happening and exactly how Delilah is involved. All he knows is that the aftermath with be good for the High-Rise.

"But fine, it's not my place to change your mind," the ex-cop mellows out his voice, though not all of the tension is gone from his shoulders. He faces Kaden again, the man who is going to start a gang war, who is going to get himself in danger, "I do have stakes in this, though."

"Told you I wanted to work with the Black Dogs, so I will. Even if I don't agree... So, you intend to take the fight to the Nakurra. How? Where? You can't just start gunning each other down in broad daylight."
 
Damien recognizes Kaden's irritation regarding the turf war and let's the matter go.
It vexes the capo that this man thinks he knows what's happening better than he does.

If it's not the right option than it is the only one.
He can't help but eye Damien suspiciously when he says he does in fact have stakes in the fight.

If he is being played, what does he do to silent the music? Peace with the Nakurra seems impossible at this point.

Before he can answer Damien, Cade approaches.
In his hand he's carrying an envelope.

"This just came in," he says, handing off the package.
Finch studies it warily before accepting.
It's been cut into, examined.

Finch opens up the parcel, picking up the phone inside. He glances at Damien before searching the listed numbers.
There's only one logged in the contacts.

He dials it, waits.
For the time being, Cade and Damien peacefully coexist.

The person on the other line lets him sweat in anticipation before they answer.
It's not a woman's voice.
It's not Delilah. Just by the soft breath in his ear he can tell.

"Is this Finch?"

Kaden looks down, blinking impassively. "It is."

"I want-er, I need to meet." The boy's voice is tiny. There's a new edge to the tone, but it's layered in fragile human being.
The little Nakurr is trying to be a man. All at once Kaden sees the bullet skating across Ash's face, cutting into his ear.

"After you fired on my men- fired on me, I'm not sure negotiations can be reached," Kaden murmurs in a detached sort of way.
Something too much like hope jumps in his chest again. Maybe a turf war can be avoided.
Maybe he doesn't have to do this without Delilah.

There's a pause on the line, some rustling.

"My father had just been murdered, Kaden. I know-" the boy's voice breaks, just a little. If Finch wasn't listening he may have missed it.
"I know you weren't responsible. I was just... I was angry. I would have tried to kill anyone, Kaden..."

Finch pretends to consider that. He brings a mental count to five before he answers.
"You shouldn't have tried to kill me. You'll be compensating the Black Dogs for the loss. If we come to an agreement our help won't come free or cheap. Not anymore."

Finch is brought back to his discussion with Damien about making a gang look weak by accepting surrender.
The conversation seems like it was months ago with how fast things have moved. Still, his point remains. Mercy is kindness and kindness and be misinterpreted as weakness.
Finch will have to bleed the Nakurra if this can be taken earnestly.

"...I understand," the Nakurra cub submits in a small murmur. Inexperienced as he is, he accepts just like that.

"I will choose the location this time. You may have three of your best accompany you, but your weapons will be checked at the door," Finch states.

Before a reply can arrive, Finch ends the call. Wasting no time, he switches the phone into air plane mode and pulls out the card. When he's finished he tosses the whole disassembled mess into the bag it came in.

His second in command glances at Damien, doing very little to blanket the suspicious look when that's something he's more than capable of.
Finch and Cade haven't talked about the night of the gala, not really. The talk was putting Cade on his knees, but like putting a tracker on Damien feels off-putting, neutralizing Cade feels inadequate now.

It was the right thing to do, but it doesn't feel right.
Something Kaden can't describe feels lodged between them and he doesn't know how to pull it free. Attacking him again somehow feels unproductive.

"You're going to meet with the little shit?" Cade asks with a surprisingly level tone.
"Because he called you on the phone and cried about his dad?"

Kaden's not confident about it, but he steels himself.
"They've no doubt heard how we've geared up. As angry as Ash may be, he's not suicidal. It's possible renegotiations can be opened up again, heavily in our favor."

Cade presses his hands over his mouth and nose, inhaling deeply. He lets it out in a sharp gust, points his steepled hands at Kaden.
"That's what you said last time, Kaden. And then it turned out to be a trap."

He's still quiet, still respectful. Kaden doesn't have to hurt him again. Not yet.
Honestly, Kaden's not sure what difference it would make at this point. His second has become stubbornly wayward since Damien came.

"That's why we'll prepare. We'll have our own snipers watching the premises. If negotiations can't be reached, Ash will be easy to kill."

Cade nods slowly, jaw rolling as he clenches his teeth.
He sucks in a breath, but doesn't say a word in defiance.
"You're the boss," he says curtly.

A familiar grin takes over his mouth, manipulating the corners up with invisible fingers. The gangster sends one last considering look at Damien before turning away.
Someone who didn't know Cade would say that interaction went surprisingly well.

It did not.

"It may be dangerous for you to accompany me to such a meeting," Kaden explains once they're alone. He glances down at Damien's weapon before continuing.
"Ash is under the impression we're romantically engaged. It's unlikely but he might try to use you to get to me."
 
When Cade interrupts to deliver Finch a package with a phone inside it, Damien quirks up an eyebrow in curiosity. That feeling of interest doesn't leave the ex-cop the entire time as he listens to the conversation the capo holds over the device - even with only hearing half of the discussion, it's easy to gather who the speaker is, and what they are proposing.

That last part is particularly shocking - as much as he has been arguing for renegotiations with the Nakurra, for the clan to reach out first is as unexpected as Finch agreeing, and that's putting things mildly. Maybe this mess can be turned back around. A tiny sliver of hope settles in Damien's chest for what's about to come before Cade rips it out in one swift movement.

Yeah, the gangs' last meet-up had in fact been a trap.

The ex-convict's jaw clenches. There is tension in the air, not only towards him from Cade based on the looks he's getting, but between the two Black Dogs. Yet, without giving much quarrel, the second in command elects to simply acquiesce and walk away.

The strain doesn't leave Damien's jaw with his exit. In fact, it further intensifies at Finch's words.

"No, last time we split up things went... really wrong. On both our ends," the ex-cop crosses his arms. The sharp panic over Kaden's fate he'd experienced while he was running away last night is way too fresh of a memory. Maybe the Nakurra are being honest with their intentions, maybe everything will be alright. There's a chance, there always is. Just like there's always a chance of danger, and if such a thing presents itself, the ex-cop intends to be there.

A selfish part of Damien tells him he simply doesn't want to feel the emptiness of not having a partner at his side again, but he shakes his head, continuing, "I know the impression Ash has been left with. If he does believe I'm a way to get to you, then maybe keeping me close would make sure he can't attempt that behind your back. I get my safety doesn't make much of a difference to you beyond tracking down my corpse, but I'd appreciate it."

"Plus, I can be of help if you let me."

Most importantly, it would give Damien peace of mind.
 
Things did go poorly once they were separated. Kaden thinks back on that night and wonders if Damien couldn't have improved his situation than Finch might have improved the ex-cop's.
He's been honest about what happened; something relatively rare to Finch but Damien hasn't been completely honest with Kaden.
Something really bad happened, and it has something to do with that sideways cop.

The capo won't go out of his way to find that man, but if he happens to be at the wrong place and wrong time then Damien can't blame Kaden for what happens next.

"Very well," Finch agrees with a soft nod. He glances down at the man's S&W, but his eyes linger on Damien's hands.
"Previous events indicate we may be safer together as you suggest."

"Besides," Kaden adds, "you're so stubborn I doubt I could keep you home even if I wanted to."
 
Kaden agrees without much pushback and Damien counts this as a small win. It's one worry to set aside - as minor as it might be on the grand scale of things, the relief it brings is significant. Still, there's prep to be done, maybe some more time spent practicing his aim as well as asking for info on the meeting location.

The consigliere interrupts the ex-cop's thought process when he speaks again.

"Me, the stubborn one?" Damien questions, searching the consigliere's face with equal amounts of flustered surprise and amusement.

No matter how you look at it, Finch is the more obstinate one out of the two, disregarding the fact he's in close succession agreed to renegotiating with the Nakurra and letting Damien tag along. He's kind of right, though, isn't he? The ex-convict isn't that far behind in terms and pigheaded determination, and he doesn't find it particularly insulting, despite Kaden's tone. Stubbornness has been the sole thing to get him through a lot in the past.

Damien allows himself half a smile, "Well, thank you so much for the compliment, Kaden."
 
Kaden nods firmly. Yes, Damien is stubborn like a mule and twice as unorthodox.
It's important the man knows that.

And then Damien smiles, just a little one and Finch allows himself to forget whatever point he was trying to make.
Now is not the time for smiles or playfulness.
"Oh, you're very welcome, Damien," he replies with anyway, smiling just a little bit. Only to show a good nature.
"If that's your criteria for a compliment than I have so many more for you."
 
This is really not the time or place for this, and Damien fully realizes the fact, but not getting swept up in the moment is way too difficult. It's a bright spot of normalcy in all of the horror that makes a jolt go through the ex-cop's body. He can't stop from smiling, holding Kaden's gaze. Is it really that bad to indulge?

"You can't say that and not expect me to get curious," the expression on his face feels both disgusting and exhilarating at the same time, "Do your worst."
 
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"You're brash, for one." Kaden counts off on one hand. Some people might say Damien was brave.

"You have no healthy boundaries for death or respect for your own life." Another finger. That was a big one, arguably a whole hand could be used up in that umbrella term. Some might say Damien was determined. You could make a compelling argument he was one minded, and dangerously so.
Or just dumb.

"Every second sentence you speak is the most nonsensical thing ever spoken." If only the rest of his life could be as easy as it is to list Damien's faults.
"You're too kind, you're too patient, you're too forgiving, you're too trusting and you're overall a disaster and I don't know how you've made it this far."

Seven fingers, that's not terrible. Finch takes the time to study the man in his company, from his shoes to his face.
Damien had been hesitant to accept any more of Finch's financial help, particularly when it came to dressing himself. But the capo was equally hesitant to let Damien go back to his apartment for something as trivial as clothes.
He looks nice. He really does.

"If I had time I could truly serenade you with your shortcomings, Damien."
 
Last time Kaden told Damien he was kind he got angry, irrationally so, like it was some sign of weakness, and it was, spoken in the context of him not being up to his task. However, now the emotion gripping the ex-convict isn't indignation. It's anxiety, completely unforeseen and distressing - he has no use for showing goodwill to others given the revenge he planned for 15 years, yet the thought that he can't be called kind anymore (not after last night) unnerves him to the core. If Kaden found out about what happened, would it destroy this perception he has of Damien? That worries him and he doesn't know why. It shouldn't matter, but it does.

Collateral, the man comforts himself. This is fine, it's good.

Finch calls him a disaster and Damien laughs, no sarcasm or scorn behind it. His hand reaches up to cover his eyes.

"You say I'm the one that speaks nonsense, yet here you are the strangest person I've ever met. The gall is cute. Do you ever listen to yourself? You say some really out-of-pocket shit," the harsh words don't match the soft, dejected intonation of his voice.

The fingers pressing into his eyelids are grounding, making colors dance in the darkness. It's a much-needed if woefully short reprieve, as Damien uncovers his face to again look at Finch. Is the smile he shows him kind?

"Maybe if we survive you'll have the time to keep spouting off. And I'll have the time to pay you back the "compliments"," holstering the thoroughly clean and put back-together handgun, Damien reaches for the lighter in his pocket, turning to walk away, "I need a smoke now, though."
 
Kaden's smile fades, his expression softening. The playfulness dims from Damien's face.
Finch wasn't that harsh, was he? Yes, everything he said was true regarding Damien's character, but he didn't mean it in a negative context. Not really.

Before he can make a fool of himself Damien comes back to him, somewhat.
Kaden scowls, but the expression is too weak to be his usual. Perhaps pout is more apt.
His gall is cute? That's the closest anything has ever said anything like that about him. Finch doesn't really inspire those kinds of words. Maybe he is 'out of pocket', slightly.

"I look forward to it," Finch says with a smile, and finds that he worryingly is.
When has he ever invited useless criticism from someone?
He watches Damien leave before exhaling and shaking the concerning fluttering in his chest.

Right, the Nakurra. He has work to do. Serious, dangerous work.
 
---
The facility has all the charm of a molding cardboard box filled with unwanted kittens.
Now, Cade would say that's still a reasonable amount of charm - these are cats you're talking about after all.

But replace the kittens with wrinkly artifacts that are all used up and you have a retirement home.
They have handrails on every hallway, fish tanks, and if Cade's not mistaken they even have a Wii. Not a Wii U, which would at least be somewhat humane, but the older generation that's only good for a paper weight.

Cade holds his breath at the visitor's counter. The air is stale, stuffy.
The woman on the opposite side slowly comes to life, like a statue breaking out of stone. She rolls her eyes up at Cade, slowly, tediously.
Then a spark of life comes to her in this dead place. Her tattered chair squeaks as she sits back.

Yeah, the gangster covered up the bruises buddy gave him with a scarf and a winter hat that makes him feel a bit like a pompous doofus, but he still looks like a rough dude.
Especially for a place like this.

"Uh, hello," she says, clearing a frog in her throat.
Her hands are on the table in front of her, bracing.
"Who are you here to see?"

Cade glances down the hallway, at the communal area of wheelchairs and walking sticks.
An old woman trying to put together a giant ass puzzle is wheezing attempting to collect a piece that's fallen under the table.

"Uhh..." Cade grunts, leaning an arm on the counter. The receptionist follows the movement.

"Wilson," he says, finally, rubbing at a scab on his knuckle.
"Frank Wilson."

Recognition floats over the woman's face, than an undue amount of happiness for a man she doesn't know. Not really.
"Oh!" She smiles, "he'll be so happy to have a visitor. He had dinner in his room this evening. I'm sure he's still there."

The scab he's terrorizing is flaking under his thumb, giving way to raw weeping flesh.
Cade crosses his arms, pinning the fidgeting down.
He's just about to ask for the room number so he can get this over with when a new element enters the equation.

"Cadence?"

His shoulders stiffen and bunch up around his ears. The receptionist sees his cringe and politely ignores it.
Slowly he leaves the safety of the counter, turning to face the human abomination that has graced this purgatory hell hole.

"It really is you!" She says, excited. But not friendly excited, more like a spoiled brat who's found a new toy to fuck around with excited.
Like Cade's a thing.

"Matty-"
"Matilda," she corrects.

Matty is a few years older than he is, but she looks younger. Actually, to be specific she looks like a TikToker. A blonde one with daddy issues and a dependency on boba tea. Normally, he'd make fun of people trying to live in their twenties again, but she is almost passing.
It makes him pissed.
As if this couldn't get any worse, she's dragging in the little rat she calls a child behind her. The way she pulls on the kid really gives the illusion he truly is the little pooch women like her keep around.
Cade wouldn't be the least surprised if she has a mommy channel for how she's raising him superior to the way all other rugrats are raised.

"How long as it been? A couple months at least."

Cade's fingers dig into his sleeve, a gentle pressure with his jacket on.
The kid sees the bit of red from his knuckle. Cade tucks his hand away.
"A year actually," he mutters, half to himself.

"I was going to see him but..." Matty glances down the hallway at the living fossils taking eons to do so much as scratch their ass.
"Well, you're here. It makes the most sense for you to take Oliver and go together."

Before Cade can complain, the kid is brought forward and shooed to his side like an offering.
He's an awkward little shit, with a very unfortunate haircut. Round baby face, little snub nose. Think cherub, but obviously clothed and no wings.
Blue eyes, same shade as his.
But they're not his, not even close.

"Actually I was going to-"

"I'll wait right here," Matty says to her oversized fetus. "Go with Cadence. He'll take care of you."

Cade grits his teeth hard enough to make them ache.
In his usual setting he wouldn't take this kind of shit. He proved that much with Jackie and Markus.
This environment is a lot less forgiving about assault though.

Because he can't speak without it being the most filthy curse these walls have ever seen, Cade just stiffly turns away.
The sound of little steps behind him means the kid's following him.
The drawn look of the elderly indicates the same. All of the dinosaurs stop to look, some smiling, completely enraptured by the tike.
It's the same fascination and obsession regular people have when they spot a puppy. Something about nearing the end of your life and having a tattered dirty black slate must make people nostalgic about being an innocent kid again.
Your whole life ahead of you to fuck up again, yeah that's great.

Must be a better alternative to dying though.

"You come see him often?" It's a casual enough question, one Cade feels just comfortable enough to ask rather than walk in silence.
He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Matilda takes me to see him every first Sunday of every month," Oliver dutifully declares. If he catches the fuck off energy Cade is giving off, the kid ignores it.
When a nurse passes by guiding an old hunchback who looks like he could star in a horror movie, the kid bumps into his thigh.

"Watch it," he growls, and suddenly feels much older than he is.
He might as well be an eighty hundred years old grouch himself.

With a slightly more reproachful tone he mutters, "You call your mom Matilda?"

"You call her that."

Cade stiffly turns away to snap at a child and say the most childish thing he's ever said in his life.
"Because she's not my fucking mom, Oliver."

The rest of the walk to Mr. Wilson's room is less eventful.
Oliver knows the way better than Cade, pushing ahead of him. Cade lets him. Call him a coward but, yeah, the kid going first is better than him going.
The guy meant nothing to Oliver. There are dogs older than Oliver. Hell, there's cans of corn older than Oliver

Where the other rooms they've passed have been well decorated, covered in pictures of grandchildren and pets, this one is empty. Sterile.

Wilson is sat in his wheelchair, parked to face the window that's had the blinds pulled in front of it.
With a shakey hand he's pushing at the blinds, pulling at them.

Cade smears a drop of blood from his hand before stepping in.
He's here now, there's no going back.
Fearlessly, or maybe just accepting his fate, Oliver walks right up to the old man. Cade follows.

"Cadence," the man murmurs thoughtfully. A bit of spit glistens his bottom lip as he trips over words. He's looking at the kid, oblivious to Cade or simply choosing to ignore him.
"How was school?"

"I'm..." Oliver starts before sighing. It's the most grown up sound Cade's ever heard from a child.
"It was good... Dad."

Wilson fumbles with the curtains again, swearing under his breath.
"You, there." He points a crooked finger at Cade.
"Do your job and help me with this."

Ah, so he was ignoring him.
Cade steps forward, but it's just to pull the curtain further down.
Wilson looks angry, glaring at Cade. With his thinning grey hair mussed as it is, he truly looks like a crazy old man.
And then, like water over a duck's back, the anger is gone. Confusion takes it place.

"Cadence?" He asks again, looking at Oliver.
Sneering he says, "did you graduate yet? You know I spent so much money sending you to these schools thinking you'd actually succeed for once."

Cade feels the muscles in his face wrinkling. He feels like a snarling dog.
"He's just nine-"
"I'm twelve-"
"Big fucking difference," Cade sighs at the kid. Oliver glares up at him, like the little soldier he is.
Wilson smiles at the exchange, thoroughly entertained even if what he's seeing can't make complete sense to him.

It only lasts a moment, and then he's looking in bewilderment at the strangers in his room.
"Cadence?" He drawls, looking around. This time the blinds stay safe.

"Where's my Edith? Is she coming home soon?"

Cade smiles grimly at the old man.
"She's dead. Been dead a long time."

The gangster watches with some morbid satisfaction while the old man goes through the stages of grief, as long as his brain can remember long enough to experience them.
Wilson stares into his lap, blinking.

When he looks up he squints at the new faces.
"Cadence?" He searches both faces, but finds nothing.

"Where's Cadence?"

That's a question that's harder to answer.
Cade scoffs in utter disbelief, turning away before he does something he'll regret.
He's not running away, he's getting air.

Where's Cadence.

That's a good question. And he's asking it fucking now of all times.
Some masochistic part of Cade wants to march back inside and point at his chest, tell him he's Cadence.
But with his hair cut, he wouldn't recognize him.
He hasn't in a long time. Maybe he never has.

The kid is Cadence now. Cade is just staff apparently. Lazy staff that isn't doing his job.

"That's the last fucking time I waste any on him," Cade spits when he feels Oliver at his side. The kid has to nearly jog to keep up.
He's smart for a second or two, letting Cade strew in silence. If he unclenches his hands he'll start tearing at them again.

"How come you're not a cop anymore?"

"Holy shit -" Cade bursts, laughing without any mirth. "Read a room, kid."

Oliver screws his face up, glaring at him again. Cade wants to tell him his face is going to get stuck like that.
He has no idea who Cade is. None in the fucking slightest. If he did, he wouldn't talk to him like this.

The gangster stops at a fish tank to catch his breath. Some genius filled it with cat fish, the most boring of all fish.
The black logs just sit at the bottom, or suction off from the side. They might as well be dead for how much they move.

"How come you're not in kindergarten anymore?" Cade shoots back.

Oliver scoffs, crossing his arms.
"I grew up."

Cade whips out a hand, nodding obviously.
"That's about right."

Shit, he really is an old man. He skipped the confident, successful stage of middle life and went straight into being an old fuck.

Well, this half of his life anyway.

On the flip side, he's a cold brutal man who gets what he wants.
He's not a spineless little brat anymore. He's not.
Yeah, he's worked hard for his position just to have it taken by a fucker with a cute face but... That doesn't make Cade the weak one. It's not his fault!
He just...
He has no control in this situation. It's something he can't beat through or have beaten out of him.

"Did you really think I was nine?" Oliver asks quietly.

Cade shrugs.

"I'm going to get a growth spurt soon," Oliver confirms confidently, and then in true Cade style spits, "When- if I see you next year I'll look more my age than you do."

Cade rolls his eyes. Is this what he sounds like to other people?
"I'll see you for the funeral. However soon that'll be and then that's it, bucko."

Cade can tell that hurts. Oliver's mouth drops and his eyes go wide. The little terror loses what little years he has to look that pathetic.
But just as quickly he scrunches up into a snarl someone should really tell he'll get stuck with if he doesn't stop.
"You're- you're an asshole!"

"Damn fucking right I am!"

He's not made for this life anymore. Not to be dramatic (but fuckit he will be), Cade's a new breed now.
He doesn't do kids, he doesn't do family visits. It was stupid to come here and think he could. It was stupid to think he could find any catharsis.
Cade's a damn Mafia boss, a killer, what in the world is he doing here wearing the skin of his old life?

Especially when it was this shitty?

He doesn't need catharsis.

"C'mon," he grumbles, grabbing Oliver by his hood to drag him, just like Matilda does.
"Let's get you back to your mom before she fucks off and finds another dude to marry."
 
---

The door to the corner office unlocks with a click and a figure steps inside with a prolonged yawn, cracking their stiff neck.

"Good morning, Lonie."

The unexpected voice coming from inside the supposedly empty space sends the figure - this Lonie - into a stumble, hitting some nearby filing cabinets as they nearly scream in surprise, though the noise ends up as nothing more than a yelp. It takes them a few seconds to calm down and recognize that the man speaking - and currently chuckling - is familiar.

"Neil?! I-I mean- Captain," the person stutters out, rubbing at the elbow they hit in their fumble. It smarts, "You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing lurking alone in the dark?"

"Sorry about that."

MacDarragh smiles at his subordinate. He's sat at his office chair in front of the computer, only a desk light illuminating him and the lit cigarette held between his fingers, the butts of a heaping serving of more smokes crowding the ashtray. The smell in the room is unbearable. Lonie scrunches up their face, approaching from the doorway and straightening out their button-up. They're dressed professionally, though not in uniform - they're just a civilian, after all, executive assistant.

"You know you can't smoke in here, Captain... I didn't know you'd come in yet. Did you spend the whole night in the office?"

"I did. Came in petty late last night, most had already gone or were still out searching. How's the manhunt going?"

The question causes Lonie to tense and they grimace, apologetically, "It's... to be honest, nothing has come up yet," the assistant looks down at their shoes, before chancing a glance at their superior, "I did get the information you asked me for, though. Not that I see how it relates to the accident... That's uh, that's why I came in, actually. Planned to leave the papers on your desk."

With a slight glimmer in his eyes, Neil reaches out to accept the folder graciously offered up to him, "I don't either, but I'll figure it out," he hums, opening the document and skimming over it briefly before nodding in satisfaction, "Good job, Lonie."

The assistant perks up at those words, standing up straighter, "Thank you very much, sir. Now that you're here-"

Lonie's words get cut-off midway as Neil rises from his spot, throwing the folder as well as several things he'd printed out into his travel briefcase, "I'm afraid I can't stick around for long. Got work to do outside. I trust you can hold down the fort while I'm gone."

The executive assistant meets their captain with a grimace. MacDarragh is just that - a captain. He's supposed to have an administrative position now more than anything else, yet he still goes out on patrol on occasion, and recently that habit has become more common. Like last evening, when he disappeared only to find himself in the middle of an active assault ending in murder. Lonie can hold down the fort, they've done it before, but never in a position such as this one.

Noticing their trepidations, Neil places a hand on their shoulder, frowning sympathetically, "Listen... it has to do with Conley."

The name is like a trigger, an unfortunate return to reality that causes Lonie's behavior to switch instantly, shoulders stiffening and eyes glazing over, "I... I understand."

Pressing down on their shoulder in a gesture of support, the policeman adds, "Have you been to see him yet?"

The assistant bites down on their lip, struggling to get the words out like they cause them physical pain, "... No. Dan's still in the ICU. Felix, he-"

Lonie can't finish the sentence, voice breaking. They don't need to say anymore, though. Releasing his hold, MacDarragh leans down to meet them at eye level, intonation serious when he speaks, "I promise you, we'll find the person that did this to Dan. And to Chief Moore."

---

Neil is in the process of exiting the police precinct, having changed out of his work clothes after a shower, when two of his subordinates drag someone in through the front entrance. The instant assumption would be they've made an arrest, yet the lack of any restraints on the man makes MacDarragh think otherwise as he approaches. The smell that wafts off the tattered mess that is this person tells him enough - he's a drunk. One that can barely keep himself upright, by the looks of things. Question still remains why he isn't handcuffed. The two officers plop the homeless man onto the bench like he's a limp corpse, which he might as well be.

"Shit," one of them - Daryl, was it - says under his breath, holding onto his nose dramatically, "Like lugging around a sack of shit, dude. Both feeling- and smell-wise."

The other - Kate - frowns at her partner before deciding to ignore him and turning on the drunk, arms on her hips, "You better sober up fast and start answering questions."

"Everything alright here?" MacDarragh, having approached the two officers without them noticing, causes them both to jolt.

"Captain-!"

"Cap!" Daryl exclaims, eyes lighting up, "We were just going to look for you. We have a lead."

The precinct captain quirks an eyebrow at this statement, only to receive Daryl's proud posturing in return. Thankfully, Kate speaks before her partner can go off on a tangent, "This man claims to have seen someone matching the description of the suspect you provided, as well as someone else possibly with them."

Now that's worthwhile news.

"But beyond that, it's been difficult getting any statement out of him," the woman sighs, "Of course, we brought him down to the station to get an official report, but... frankly I think he just wants somewhere to shelter for a bit."

MacDarragh's hand is twitching, eyeing the drunk still slumped over on the bench. He takes out his phone to look at the time.

"Keep him in," the man orders.

Kate's eyes widen, "Sir?"

"The temperatures outside are low, and it's bound to get worse in the evening. We can put him up for a bit, give him something warm, even if he doesn't have anything of use to offer. I'll be in later to question him."

Daryl nods, grinning at his superior in approval before his mouth twists like he's noticed something. That'd be a first for the policeman, "What happened to your hand, Cap?"

"What do you-" MacDarragh starts off in some minor confusion, until he looks down at his palms, at the gauze pad covering the tender area his most recent injury. And by most recent, he means the first one in a long while - Neil doesn't usually get scars, especially not ones he delights in remembering, "Ah, this... My dog bit me."

"Didn't know you had a dog! What breed is it?"

"Well, he's more of a stray really," MacDarragh - "Vincent" - smirks, squeezing his first enough to make the still fresh bite wound sting, "A bulldog."

---

Everything is happening all at once. Neil sits in his car - the civilian one - a barely contained energy radiating through his muscles making his fingers twitch in rhythm. Damien being out of prison, the folder in his hands, the drunkard that might have seen something - it's almost overwhelming. MacDarragh would probably have a much easier time connecting things if he'd simply used his High-Rise resources, but where's the fun in that? No, fun is the rush of fighting a surprisingly skilled stranger in a back alley after buying him a drink. Fun is chasing an unfinished assignment.

The policeman feels the need to turn on the radio in his vehicle and listen to some tunes, yet he can't allow himself that at the moment, so he satisfies himself by quietly humming instead, staring out of the window.

It's that quaint time of day when children are at school and adults are off at work, when suburbia looks like an abandoned ghost town. Yet the Montesano household is not empty. There's a man inside - Kim, the sergeant's husband, based on the info Lonie collected. He hasn't gone out at all in the last hours MacDarragh has observed the residence, except to let the family dog out for a moment. How unfortunate. That'll make setting up surveillance somewhat more difficult, and Neil needs to do that. Natalia is Blumenthal's parole officer. Other information on Damien is proving harder to obtain, yet this undeniable, legally traceable fact remains easily accessible. How'd the two manage that impressive arrangement? From what Neil remembers, Nat, Mike and Damien were pretty close back in police academy. Does she have enough personal attachment to be involved? Probably. After all, she'd shown up at Moore's scene when she shouldn't have been there.

He needs to surveil her somehow, yet if her husband won't fuck off for a little while... In the suburbs, every house looks the same. Break into one, and you've broken into all of them. Neil eyes the building opposite of his target. That'll do.
 
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---

There's no masks this time, but the lowlights give a certain anonymity nevertheless.
No, there's no class, no pretense at grace or civility.

Nirvana is a club much like any other; loud, unusual smell, questionably clean and filled with writhing bodies.
It's main difference is the multi sexed dancers. Male and female performers take the poles to mesmerize their guests.
Though times are still certainly changing, the club nevertheless maintains an exotic touch to it and it shows.
It's not even 10 pm and the place boasts a large and well to-do crowd of clientele.
People here can have their cake and their pie, and eat them both.

Kaden likes this place. It's not the scantily clade bodies, not necessarily although perhaps he does like to live through them vicariously.
There's something alluring about being able to dress like this, and have people want you so badly.
Practically, Finch could never participate. He has the muscle and dexterity, but such an occupation would undermine his position. The times aren't that changed, not in his ilk.
Not to mention all the touching involved.

In a private booth, it's quieter. The overwhelming beat and uproar of the crowd is a muffled, nearly soothing drone.
Each seat faces a podium in the middle, circling it.
In a pretense for being simple customers, they have a masculine dancer going through his routine while they wait.

It is captivating, almost like a trance the way the body ripples and flows.
The man is wearing a red corset with black frills. It only comes to his underbust, leaving little to the imagination. The cream white canvas of his back remains uncovered, showing an array of flexing and shifting muscle.
Underneath the lower hem resides a tight pair of women's garments that cover only what is necessary.
Fish stock leggings follow the flow of defining musculature in the legs, revealing the deceiving dimension of a man trying to be feminine.
The look is complete with black high heels which further accentuated the dancer's meagerly covered ass.
Picking someone that eerily resembles his own person was unintentional, but not an unpleasant surprise.

Finch has more interest in watching Damien watch the dancer.
Though it seems a waste to miss such a performance, Kaden finds his attention drifting to the man fully dressed and sitting still time and time again.

Has he been to a place like this before? Does he like this sort of thing? Is it too explicit for someone like Damien?

"Are you in position?" Finch murmurs softly, holding a hand to his ear.

After a pause and a low grunt Cade's voice comes through; it makes a shiver want to burrow down Kaden's spine.
"Yeah, we've got the place surrounded and locked down. Good luck."

Finch had expected some playful and inappropriate banter about the Dog wanting to be in the action, rather than outside of it given the nature of the Nirvana business.
Perhaps it's the presence of the male dancers, but Kaden knows that's not all it is...

"Don't say anything stupid," he advises to Damien as the dancer grips the pole with his thighs.
The man arcs, showing the bow of his spine and the graceful curve of his throat.

Ash is a scared kid recently deprived of his father, and the Black Dogs have the upper hand in every way, but it seems premature to be cocky.

"...Don't say anything too smart either." As he's saying it he realizes how unrealistic that command is.
Maybe he's been at this too long. His nerves are fraying.

He looks at Damien, and the funny pair they make fashion wise. In many ways they are water and oil.
But perhaps if Damien had means he would dress better.

"I know you're here to assist me as a...friend," he states, suddenly uncertain to the exact nature of their relationship.
Friends seem... Right. They're not associates, not exactly colleagues, and they're too familiar to be acquaintances.
The relationship remains stubbornly floating in ambiguity.

"But I get paid for things like this, indirectly, and it's only fair that you should too. How much would you like to be compensated with?"
 
Quieter as it is in the private booth, the heavy base from the music in the nightclub reverberates throughout Damien's body, traveling from the soles of his feet then up his limbs before settling into a rhythm right at the base of his neck and making it difficult to swallow. Or maybe that's just the beat of his own heart pounding away way too loudly, causing his arteries to jump in time. This can't be good for his blood pressure.

The fact there's a half-naked man doing an exotic dance a few feet away can't be good for his blood pressure either.

Where the hell has Finch taken them? Again.

Stuck in his seat, Damien feels like he's been frozen stiff unable to move, safe to cross his arms in an attempt at defense. Defense against what? It's not like the ex-cop hasn't been to such establishments before, though it wasn't a regular habit for him prior to being imprisoned and his choice haunts were gay bars - much more underground back in the day, as well as not this hypersexual, at least not directly out front. No, Nirvana reminds him more so of the strip places Michael used to drag him along to for company, only to abandon him midway after a woman caught his eye. Looking back, strangely, that wasn't that awkward. This, however, is, at least for Damien.

In this surprisingly progressive club, there are any-sexed performers, yet Kaden had chosen a masculine one. Was that decision deliberate? If yes, to what end? Worse yet, the guy looks way too similar to the capo for comfort. Is this supposed to be some... bizarre form of powerplay Damien can't or doesn't want to wrap his head around? Maybe a strange vanity? He genuinely cannot figure it out and attempting to only makes him more flustered than he already is. Despite not being a religious person, the ex-cop prays the lowlights provide enough concealment to hide the shade of his face.

He's here to do a job, damn it. Same goes for the Black Dog. He understands pretending to be clientele, but that doesn't particularly calm him down.

Damien chances a glance at Kaden for the first time since they entered the booth, eyeing him suspiciously. His heart lodges itself in his throat when his eyes meet the consigliere's dark brown ones, already looking in his direction. His arms tense before his gaze falls back on the dancer, yet that's not much better. Everything he does is way too distracting, from the way he's dressed to the routine. Usually, the ex-convict does his best not to be cognizant of Finch's appearance because that's irrelevant to their relationship. Usually, he's successful at that. Good thing this look-alike is just that - a vaguely similar individual, not actually Kaden. In a staggering display of deteriorating mental health (or maybe he can blame this on lack of sleep too), Jackie's claim that the consigliere apparently does yoga surfaces at the forefront of his mind unbidden.

Damien's hand comes up to connect with his forehead in a facepalm. There's something fucking wrong with him.

When Kaden addresses him, the ex-cop nearly jumps in his seat, barely stopping himself at the last moment. He nods at the capo's instructions without being capable of paying them that much conscious attention. Of course, he's aware he should be mindful of his words. This is important, after all. That's why he needs to keep level-headed.

The mention of potential compensation serves as a good distraction to accomplish that.

Slowly, Damien shifts to fully face Kaden, "Compensation? I'm not doing this to get compensated, Kaden. I'm doing this because I want to work with you," the ex-cop frowns slightly. This isn't a transactional exchange, he doesn't want it to be. Even if he felt like the Black Dog owed him - which he doesn't, not anymore - he can't really think of something to request in return. Damien shrugs, "Plus, friends do favors for one another without expecting anything back."

Are they friends? Is this how Kaden sees him? The thought has a warmth to it, but is this what this is? Now's not appropriate to ponder the semantics of their situation.

In Damien's periphery, the performer is still diligently carrying on with his work. Jaw clenching, the ex-cop leans slightly towards Kaden, cupping his mouth with one hand to whisper behind his fingers in some kind of attempt not to be rude, "He's not going to be here when Ash arrives, right?"
 
Again, Damien reinforces Kaden's theory that every second sentence he utters is complete nonsense.
Friendship is sweet, but it has no monetary value.
The capo possesses the man's time, keeping him from pursuing a job as a fast food cashier or store clerk.
Damien will need a wage eventually, and yet having the offer be declined tickles that part of Finch Damien doesn't like.
Without payment, Damien may continue to find himself in situations where he is reliant on him and Kaden is all too willing to allow that to be the case.

This man is truly an enigma.

"Maybe my favour as a friend is paying you, completely unrelated to this job you're working," Kaden says, and this is truly the stupidest thing he's ever argued about.
Does he respect Damien's stance on being paid because that's another ridiculous boundary the man's setting? Or does he force it on Damien, which he knows the man doesn't like?

Finch has so many bigger problems to deal with.
He raises a hand in surrender before anything can start.
"We'll revisit this at a later time."

Damien's attention is recaptured by the dancer, where it has been the length of their stay.
Purposefully not staring is more incriminating had Damien not looked at all. Like a teenager, the ex-cop is overwhelmed and at best Kaden would find such a lack of control absurd. Now, for whatever reason, the capo finds the obsession invigorating and he's unwilling to analyze why.

Finch recognizes the gesture, leaning in to listen. He smiles, just a little, preened by Damien's focus.

"No, Ash is straight. As beautiful as this dancer is, he gives me no tactical advantage."
Kaden leans back against the booth. He lifts an arm, placing it on the back rest behind Damien.

The performer remains professional, acting as though he doesn't hear Finch speaking about him.
The show he's putting on is such a strain he's starting to glisten, just a little around the hairline. Each beat of the music pulls a firm roll from the dancer's hips. The corset pushes up underneath his pectorals, giving them the illusion of spilling out each time he dips.

"However, if I was meeting with you Damien I think this type of... psychological warfare would work considerably in my favor," he says, blinking slow.
"I'm pleased you enjoy this."
 
The idea of getting paid by a friend even as a favor feels weird, kind of demeaning. Despite relying on Finch quite a lot recently - an issue in and of itself - this particular subject leaves a bad taste in the ex-convict's mouth. It's another way he feels inadequate in comparison. However, before the two can start arguing, Kaden takes a rain check on the matter of compensation, wisely so. After all, they have bigger problems to deal with. Such as Ash arriving sooner rather than later.

Yet, when the capo switches over to the next topic, Damien finds himself almost wishing the two could uselessly bicker for a while instead. That type of interaction he can more easily deal with than whatever this is supposed to be.

Finch unceremoniously snakes his arm onto the backrest behind Damien, a movement the ex-cop follows closely out of the corner of his eye, doing his best to swallow down the lump in his throat causing his breath to hitch. The gesture is intentional, the capo is not even pretending. Damien's face is burning at this point. The dancer and his very skilled routine more or less fade into the background, which is a shame - the guy seems to truly be passionate about his work, but the ex-cop's attention is fully shifted onto Kaden, eyebrows furrowed.

This is the worst thing to happen to his blood pressure so far this evening. Going on like this, Damien is bound to be sent to an early grave.

Psychological warfare.

As much as the Black Dog's voice causes a not-unpleasant shiver to run down Damien's spine, his words also make the ex-cop's eyebrows furrow further. So choosing this dancer had been deliberate - Kaden's pulling his leg. Again. The ex-convict tilts his head at the man, just about managing a smirk.

"Is that what this is?" he scoffs lightly, "Who do you think I am, Kaden? I'm pleased you're pleased, but it takes a bit more to get under my skin."

Damien is posturing. He's well aware of that fact, just like he's aware he's allowed himself to act a fool as Finch teases him as he's wont to do on occasion, without any pushback. He's 38, not 18, dammit.

The ex-convict leans further back into the booth. Not enough to touch the consigliere's arm, though if he tilted his head just a little more, he'd make contact. His heart is still galloping, yet Damien tries his best to maintain eye contact.
 
Finch huffs softly, amused by Damien's denials.

"I don't think it does," he says, finding Damien's lips so he can watch them move when the man talks again.
His friend is flushed again, worse than during the flour-heroine incident. It's endearing how easily he pinks up, particularly because Damien is such a competent man in most every other situation. He never lets anyone know he's scared and in the heat of the moment he acts. But embarrassed?
He can't seem to help show it and there's nothing he can do short of leaving.
But he won't leave. Not unless Kaden gives him cause to and this isn't just cause.

Finch's line of sight flows down Damien's throat.
He wonders how far down that blush goes.

Such curiosities can't be indulged. Finch isn't given enough time to bask.
Cade's in his ear, suddenly and unapologetically. The return of work and their situation slaps down on Kaden like a wave.
He stiffens, pulling his arm away.

"Head's up. The kid just pulled up. Two bruisers and that creepy looking translator his dad always had around," Cade informs.

A company of three, not including the little Nakurra himself. It's following the rules Kaden set.

The capo snaps his fingers, turns off the beating of the music. The sudden silence is jarring, deafening.
The rhythm the dancer set falls apart as the set is interrupted. His full chest rises and falls with the exertion he was hiding behind his grace.
"Out," Kaden says, nodding to the door.

"You paid for three hours."

"Consider it a tip."

The dancer is more than willing to accept that answer. He pouts, likely confused and offended by Kaden's harsh evacuation but the capo doesn't have the emotional equity to pay him any better. Money fixes most shallow interactions.

The dancer is gone by the time the Nakurra arrive. Finch isn't sitting at their dining table of living food. This is his domain and he lets them know it by adopting an open and relaxed posture.
Ash seats himself across from Kaden and Damien. Half the boy's face is gauzed, including his ear.
If Kaden feels any guilt he stomps it down low. He wonders if it cut through the soft flesh of the cheek, if Ash can eat and drink without irritating his wound and wetting his bandages.

The boy pulls his legs in, rests his clasped together hands on his knees.
His massive henchman flank him on either side. Their black and white suits seem out of place in an environment like this.

"For what it's worth," Finch starts, voice hard but not merciless, "I am sorry for your father."

Ash snaps his head away, wincing.
"Don't," he murmurs. Each word must cause pain to form. This cub is not the same one that was at the gala. He's somehow smaller. At least than he was loud, loud without justification to back it up, but confident nevertheless.

"You fired on me but I'm willing to let bygones be bygones," Finch reiterates.
He widens the space between his legs and his knee brushes against Damien's. He's... It's nice that he's here.
It's not Delilah, it's different but it's... It's nice. Good.

Ash looks resigned, maybe even shameful.

"I want an inventory of your weapons, a list of your structural hierarchy and businesses and a payoff of a quarter million. For emotional compensation." He has to be mean. He has to be brutal.
Too good to be true is a real concept. He won't be trusted unless he makes Ash hurt. They're not the groomed offspring that can enjoy a consequence free interaction with one another, not anymore. They represent dangerous and powerful criminal organizations now. They're not friends.

"Furthermore, I want him." Finch points at the man Cade called creepy, and while appearances can be subjective Finch would find that description hard to argue with.
He's pale, but dark around the eyes and lips. His nose is long and pointed.
And he's skinny.
A corpse comes to mind. Or someone on their death bed.

"As a type of down payment to ensure your cooperation."

The cub shoots a look up at the last mentor he has and grabs at his sleeve. In hurried Japanese they mutter back and forth. Kaden can't quite follow.
The mentor shakes his hand free, harshly snapping at the cub. Ash shrinks back.

"If you want him then I... Then I want Damien," Ash bursts, much to the corpse's displeasure. He hisses at the little Nakurra.

"You've already taken so much from me, Kaden. I never realized how right my father was, I thought... I thought he was pointlessly cruel just because he was a jerk but now-" Ash trails off, shaking his head.
"Now you want even more. I should get something of yours."
 
Being locked in a stare-off with Kaden is as nerve-wracking as it is thrilling. The capo doesn't make a move, and he doesn't need to - he simply calls out Damien's bluff in that disarming tone of his, but the ex-cop can't exactly allow himself to back down. Or maybe he doesn't want to, not quite yet. When Finch's eyes trail down, Damien knows the man isn't looking away in defeat or anything of the sort. On the contrary. Taking in a shuddering inhale, his sights stay on Finch's face, completely mesmerized.

Yeah, this is all very friendly of both of them.

Suddenly resounding over the comms units, Cade puts an end to the moment by announcing the arrival of the expected party. For a split second, Damien frowns.

The change in the consigliere is immediate, and the instant his arm retreats the ex-convict finds himself able to move again, limbs unstuck. While Finch shoos away the dancer rather brusquely, he takes the chance to ground himself. Straightening out his posture Damien rolls his shoulders and breathes in several times to get his heart rate back under control. The switch is drastic, but it is necessary - he can't forget the fact that this is what he and Kaden are actually at Nirvana for. Wouldn't be befitting to be seen flushed as he is by the Nakurra.

Damien has had enough time to adopt a neutral expression when Ash and his entourage enter the booth.

The ex-cop's focus is first drawn to the henchmen, both built like brick houses. As much as he hasn't seen the two Black Dogs around lately, these Yakuza goons remind the ex-convict of Jackie and Markus (more so Markus, really), and of the trashing they gave him on their first meeting. With some luck, these Nakurra won't have as good a synergy in a fight as the Dogs did. With even more luck, it won't come down to something like that to begin with.

The second thing to draw his focus is the new leader of the clan himself - Ash's state nearly makes Damien visibly frown, not only because of the bandages. This isn't the young man he had the pleasure of meeting at the gala, the friendly one that asked too many questions. Over the span of a single night, the boy's form has seemingly diminished, becoming listless, and that quality makes his imposing henchmen appear more like captors than subordinates as they flank him. It pains the ex-cop to see, but it makes sense.

Ash did just lose his father. It's a fact Kaden acknowledges, of course, before proceeding to bleed the kid dry.

Damien doesn't speak - he'd been advised not to say anything stupid, and it's not really his place to talk. This is Finch the crime lord meeting Asahi the Yakuza head. This is their world and they know best. The ex-cop is just an interloper, so he holds his tongue obediently and listens. Until Ash brings him into the equation.

Ah, this isn't an entirely unexpected turn of events. The consigliere had warned against something of the sort. Still, the fact that the Nakurra is requesting he basically take Damien hostage is disturbing, like hearing him discuss the logistics of breeding black rhinos for their horns. Damien's jaw tightens. He's no one's thing to trade. Even if he were with Kaden, he still wouldn't be a thing to trade. But Finch started this in the first place by saying he wanted the Nakurra translator. The ex-cop has to suppress sending a look at the Black Dog out of the corner of his eyes. This is their world, their rules. Their habits of treating people like pawns.

"Ash," Damien starts with a measured voice, "You have my deepest condolences."

Repeating Kaden's gesture from earlier, Damien's knee briefly brushes against the other man's.

"But Kaden hasn't wronged you. So, I won't be coming."

Ash has truly had much taken from him, yet he is not in his right to make demands because Finch didn't take the first shot, and neither did he kill the boy's father - the father that apparently treated him as a possession, the one he himself calls pointlessly cruel.

Would Blumenthal also mourn his shitty dad if he were to die today? He highly doubts it, but the ex-convict tries not to project his own feelings onto Ash, even though it peeves him to think that by the mere act of dying the old Nakurra has been forgiven his misdeeds against his son, the perception of him changed... Not projecting is more difficult than simply saying he won't do it.

"I heard you argued for the alliance between the two gangs to become a reality," Damien proceeds, making sure to emphasize the word 'you' as he speaks. By Kaden's account, it was Ash that agreed they should join forces, pushing for it. He had already seen reason when his old man hadn't been convinced, forming his own opinion, "You know the necessity of such an agreement. For it to go through, though, things have to be mended..."

"I assume this arrangement would be temporary," the ex-cop looks at Finch with a raised eyebrow, then the translator, meeting the thin man's eyes, "To start rebuilding relations." That at least sounds better than referring to him as a "downpayment".

"If you're worried about him being hurt, he won't be. You can hold me to that," that's yet another reason for Damien not to go with the Nakurra.
 
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