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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

Damien is obediently silent until he isn't.
Finch straightens his already rim rod posture at the usually pleasant sound of his voice.
Kenji Nakamura had struck at his boy for speaking out of turn.
Finch believes such sudden discipline shows lack of control and character. People aren't dogs; they don't need to be punished in the heat of the moment to remember what they did wrong.

Furthermore, Damien deserves to speak; the topic consists of him.

Until it doesn't.

Ash's bratty scowl softens and he can't meet Damien's eyes, not when being spoken to so kindly and patiently after offering to kidnap the man.
The ex-cop has an almost maternal streak in him.
He's despicably easy to trust because of it.

"Of course, it's only a temporary situation," Finch confirms, words clipped.

You can hold me to that.

Finch glances at Damien out the corner of his eye.

"Really?" The cub asks Damien, his voice just a touch wobbly. The thin grotesque man is all he has in the world that has any substance.
Again, the two converse. The old man grips the baby Nakurra by his nape, nodding firmly. The mentor pulls a phone from his pocket, showing something to his protege that must be displayed on the screen.
The boy's expression flattens and for one brief moment he looks like a mirror image of his father.

And then it's gone.

Ash doesn't sniffle, not quite. He returns the corpse's nod, however weaker.

The boy takes hold of his mentor's sleeve one last time before releasing.
He sits back, made so small flanked by his men.
"We agree to your terms."

The old man gapes. He scowls at the little Nakurra, and again utters something so fast Finch can't keep up.
Something derogatory. The old man seems... confused, almost.
The cub mutters something, tone reassuring. It seems to mollify the man.

"I don't have a choice," Ash spits bitterly. He wipes at a cheek, the uninjured one.
"I'm sorry I... Tried to take you just now. You're a good person, Damien. Probably the only one here."

He looks away, blinking back wet eyes.
"Even if I follow the rules, the Black Dogs have always pushed on agreements in the past. You'll... You'll really do your best to make sure he'll be okay, Damien? He's the only family I have left."
 
Ash and the translator converse in rushed Japanese once more, and the ex-cop feels anxious at being incapable of understanding their words. Can Kaden? Well, whether he knows the language or not, the capo is not making any mention of what they might be saying (if he can even hear, given how low they're conversing). Neither is he calling out the fact that the very act itself is inappropriate. Like talking behind someone's back right in front of them, if that someone was a gangster you'd recently nearly shot up.

Inferring some vague meaning only off of intonation, Damien is left unable to do anything but wait.

There is a hope in him at the young Nakurra's wobbly voice that things can be resolved favorably, or at least as favorably as possible given the circumstances.

When the older man grips Ash's nape and pulls out his phone causing the boy's demeanor to briefly shift, Damien cringes internally. The two aren't seeing eye to eye on something. Does the translator feel as distressed at the idea of being treated like an object as Damien does? He can't blame him, but it's not like the ex-convict can make Finch backtrack his demand. He's already probably stepping far out of line as is. His intentions are logical, though - the quicker and more painlessly these negotiations are resolved, the better for both gangs. His sympathy for the kid's situation is just an addition.

Mercifully, without any further bartering, Ash agrees to the terms set by Kaden. Or, well, "we" agree.

As much as the translator appears confused at this turn of events, a comment by his clan head makes him settle down. Damien is still unnerved by the language barrier and by the last choice of words he could understand, but a tiny bit of relief manages to snake its way into his gut.

The sensation gets soured fast by the discomfort of being called a good person. The ex-convict has to consciously stop himself from shaking his head. That's definitively not the truth - he really isn't. However, Ash believing it to be so might be beneficial. Still, what a pitifully low bar for a good person.

"No harm will come to him. You have my promise," Damien nods once definitively, putting as much resolve behind the statement as he can.

He allows himself a glance at Kaden. Who is he, to be making such promises? He is not the consigliere's partner. He isn't even a Black Dog. Supposedly, he is a friend to who Finch feels the need to give compensation. Well, the Nakurra translator's continued safety can be that.

Damien turns away to face Ash and the only family he has left. His eyes linger on the older man, the one that had spoken so harshly to the young Nakurra. First a controlling father, now a mentor that snaps at him... Damien can't help but frown slightly. He doesn't have much more to say, and there's no need to on his end, but he does it anyway, "I know what it's like to lose family."
 
Finch let's out a harsh sigh, pressing his lips into a thin line as Damien makes his promise.

"Thank you, thank you," Ash babbles, "That's all I need."

The Nakurra head nods at Damien's closing statement, grateful.
Michael, that's who Damien is talking about. Maybe Finch hasn't lost the same way Damien has, but sometimes he imagines he has.
He still feels like the odd one out at the meeting.

"My uncle has a medical condition that makes it dangerous for him to travel and live without help," Ash says, leaving his seat. Looking at the man, Kaden believes that. A sudden thought occurs to him; what if the man dies of health related problems while in his possession?
He can't be the indirect reason another member of Ash's family dies.
"Will you give me a couple hours to cover all the bases on his stay?"

Finch stands as well.
"Yes, take all the time you need." Damien's poison is rubbing off on him.
A boy sniffles and the Black Dog is ready to roll over.

The capo takes the Yakuza's offered hand, shaking firmly. There's something hard in Ash's eyes that glitters at the same time.
Kaden's not sure, but he gets the feeling the boy wants to ask him something. Or tell him something. Or show him something.

"We'll be in touch," Ash says. It's subtle, so much so that if Kaden wasn't looking he wouldn't have noticed; the Nakurra head wipes his hand off on his pant leg.

He steps aside so the Nakurra can file out.
Within moments, it's once again only the two of them.

Finch remains standing, studying the closed door.
Is that... It? Did it work? Is there peace now?
Kaden waits for something to happen; bullets to fly, people to die, even Ash marching back in to tell him no.

None of those things happen.

The tension in the capo's shoulder eases when he turns to look at Damien. He wants to be mad at him, he needs to be mad at him.
That meeting could have been an absolute disaster. It's a miracle it went as well as it did with Damien here.

"You are very poorly behaved," he scolds, and not nearly with enough venom. It's hard to be mad when it feels like an elephant has taken one of its feet off Kaden's chest.
The capo exhales, and it feels like the first real full one in a long time.
And in the middle of this sudden sensation of weightlessness is Damien.
"You managed to say a lot of stupid things. Admittedly some smart things, but they don't cancel out. How are you going to make up for it, Damien?"
 
Damien watches the exchange between Kaden and Ash intently - Finch takes the boy's hand, shakes it, and the ex-cop quirks an eyebrow. Suppose it's only appropriate. These are the closing remarks of a formal agreement, one made verbally on the basis of honor. It's a strange concept to relate to criminals.

When, in complete contrast to his behavior at the start of the negotiations, the capo permits the kid to take his time making final arrangements for his sickly uncle, the ex-cop's surprise only grows. He doesn't fully know why this catches his attention the way it does, but it does.

A second later, the Nakurra leader and his entourage make their exit, Damien's gaze trailing after them, ready for any last-minute rejection from Ash or unexpected hostilities, imagining the two henchmen swirling back around to attack like everything up until now had been a very unfunny joke with way too prolonged of a setup. None of that ever comes, no matter how he waits with bated breath for something to go wrong. Because something always goes wrong.

The silence is deafening.

... Did they succeed?

Against Damien's better judgment, the relief from earlier blossoms in his chest. This feels like a win, the first one since... well, since he got out of prison. It's been one failure after another after another for weeks. This is the first glimpse of an accomplishment, and the ex-cop can't help being swept up in the emotion.

That annoying part of his mind that has a little too much to say too often whispers that... it's too good to be true, isn't it? He still doesn't know what Ash and the translator conversed with each other about, what was shown on the phone, or why the boy took the initiative to reach out to set up this meeting. He wiped his hand... Not to mention Damien has made a very lofty promise.

Kaden's voice does wonders for silencing his concern for the time being. By scolding him of all things. Well, his words are reprimanding. His inflection, on the other hand, is not. Mixed with the feeling of success this is... nice.

"I thought you liked me saying preposterous things," Damien snorts, and it's not derisive, "I don't know, how about a heartfelt apology? I am so incredibly sorry Kaden for trying to help with the negotiations, it won't happen again. Or would me taking a vow of silence make up for my transgressions?"

He searches Finch's face, looking for something. A confirmation.

"But... before I'm barred from speaking ever again... this worked, right? A truce has been reached?"
 
"Oh, it's far too late for silence, but for the time being the preposterous apology will have to do."
He'd miss the irritating grate of the man's voice.

It feels dangerous to smile.
Hope has hurt him so many times recently. It's a cruel and evil thing and it's bled him of any future where he could potentially see himself as content.
Finch knows Damien feels likewise; this has been a trial for them both.
Oh, but he wants to. He wants to feel this moment and live in it with Damien. He wants it so badly it hurts.
Here in this questionably sanitary stripper booth, he wants it.

"I... think so?"

I want to think so.

Can he remember ever wanting something more than to just be okay?
He rubs at his eyes, breathing in shaky serenity. When he lets his hand drop, nothing has changed.
Damien's still here.

He returns to him, dropping his weight on the booth.
He rests his head back on the cushioned seat, letting his eyes fall shut. The capo will forgive the potential filth and the distant sound of far away lust.
This might as well be the most comfortable, safe place in the world.

Spots of color and lights swirl in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. He's light, weightless.
His brain does that weird phenomena where you lose sense of exactly where your body is in relation to the world.
He's sleepy.

He's hungry.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he's actually hungry.

But he won't pursue it. He wants to stay here with Damien.
He wants to rest.

"Talk to me," he murmurs faintly, "Tell me about Michael."
 
When Kaden rubs tiredly at his eyes, Damien's expression morphs into one of slight concern. The consigliere looks exhausted, and the way he drops down into the booth supports that perception. Yet, it's a different kind of exhaustion than the one the ex-cop has witnessed or experienced so far - it's not the one that comes with barely coming up for air after a situation has nearly drowned you, only to know deep down that another dive awaits. Their work is far from over, but for the moment this tiredness comes from something ending. Hopefully...

Finch says he thinks things have worked out, and that's wonderful to hear. For the time being it's enough.

Damien turns to fully look at the Black Dog, leaning on his shoulder into the seats and focusing his eyes on the man's profile. He listens in closely to Kaden murmur, following the movement of his adam's apple.

Instead of requesting he stop speaking, the capo does the opposite - he requests Damien to talk. About Michael of all things.

That's a loaded topic, one he hasn't been asked about a lot. Where to even begin? There is so much to say and that makes it difficult to choose. That's ironic, considering how Kell is constantly in the back of Blumenthal's mind.

Eventually, Damien starts, "I knew him from day one. Literally. From the maternity ward before I could even think for myself."

That's where their mothers met, in their last term at the same time. It sounds bizarre to describe, but their parents ended up becoming family friends out of a coincidence and that's how the two men defaulted to being friends before deciding to stay friends of their own free will, even when the grownups didn't quite get along anymore.

"We were inseparable. People used to mistake us for brothers until they would figure out he was way too stupid to be related to me," Damien laughs fondly, the sound quieting down halfway. They were brothers. His eyes feel unfocused.

"Micheal was good," better than Damien ever could be. The ex-cop's voice is a near-whisper, "He had his vices, but he cared wholeheartedly about everyone around him. Even when they didn't want him to, like when he cornered me into telling him what was happening at home." Kind of like what Finch had done, but with a lot less getting pinned to the wall while wine drunk. It's strange to think that a dead man and a crime boss are the only people he's told.

"He could be a busybody like that. After his father passed away when we were little, he wanted to follow in his footsteps and become a policeman to help people. And I shamelessly stole the idea from him."

At a time when Damien just desperately didn't want to be what his parents desired of him, he'd defaulted to an option that sounded worthwhile, secretly working towards it.

The ex-convict sighs, recentering himself on Finch.

"Why-" he cringes, that feeling inappropriate for the question he has in mind, "How did you end up with the Black Dogs, Kaden?"
 
Kaden twists to face Damien. He props an arm up on the booth, resting his cheek along the crook. It is remarkably cozy for what it is.

They really were brothers. Family. Kaden didn't know to what extent that was, as he doesn't have one of his own.
That rage Kaden had is dulled by this Michael Kell that took care of Damien when he had no one, up until he couldn't.
The man's laugh is music, but it's weighted down by years of pain.

Had Kaden known, been more aware of his surroundings maybe there was a past he could have inadvertently prevented his murder.
It's unlikely, ridiculous, or even preposterous to think such a thing but he does.
He wants to unmake Damien's past and put it back together in a way that will make him happy.

"I wish I could have met him," he says, and then adds to tease, "I believe I would have liked him better than you."

Tit for tat. Damien gives a piece of himself and asks for one of Kaden's in return. He already has so much against him and he wants even more.
Finch reaches out with the other hand, busying himself fixing the ever so slightly askew collar of Damien's jacket.
"...I almost can't remember not being a Black Dog."

"My..." He inhales sharply. "My mom was sick. I needed money, I went to Delilah. I did a job and she paid me."

He puffs into his sleeve. Rather than look Damien in the eye, Finch finds something else on his apparel that doesn't need fixing.
It's a soft fabric, one that doesn't send the nerves in Kaden's hands itching with a deranged frenzy. It's warm as well, warm from Damien's natural body heat.

"It didn't work out so I... Stayed with Delilah. I've been a Black Dog since I was approximately eight years old."

Maybe older, maybe younger.
Finch actually doesn't have concrete evidence he is in fact thirty-six. He's either thirty-five or thirty-six.
But letting Damien know that would be too telling.

Damien brought up Michael at Kaden's request, but the capo can't exchange the same level of vulnerability.
His past just doesn't compete with Damien's. Kaden's past is a muddy pothole he's been trying to fill for decades and if he tells Damien he'll look down on him.

Or worse, he'll pity him.
Pity the wrong parts, the precious little life gems Kaden values other people have graciously told him are only pebbles.
Or even less than. They're special and important to him. Can't that be enough?

"That's it, more or less."

It feels like he's cheating.

"When we met for the first time I thought you were amazing," he says abruptly, looking at Damien and smiling to himself.
"You knew who you were and what you wanted. So naturally, I hated you. I had some notion you would be my arch nemesis, too."

But real life is far less dramatic. No one stays around long enough for them to become a mortal enemy.

"When you contacted me I was desperate for something else to preoccupy my attention but mostly I wanted to see how far you'd fallen. I wanted to reassure myself I hadn't wasted my life."
Damien had made a good show of it, but the man was lost. Desperate.
They've come a way from being two apposing men sharing a bar.

"You didn't disappoint," Kaden mutters with a coy smile. There isn't a button out of place or a wrinkle to smooth out.
There's no more excuses left to justify touching him.

"But now you are. More and more everyday." He rests his hand on Damien's shoulder, rubbing his collar between two fingers. Some young and vibrant part of him coos that, yes, he's touching this man's unreasonably firm shoulder and it's not horrible.

"Sometimes I wish you'd arrested me," he says in a tight sigh, "I might have become something worthwhile."

But that's the same as wishing Michael back to life.
It's offers no real peace. Only the living can do that.

"...Does Ms Kell know you're out of prison?"
 
The idea of Kaden and Michael meeting is so bittersweet it hurts. Damien would have enjoyed introducing two people he cares for. He's too far gone to pretend that isn't what Finch is to him, what he has unsuspectingly become.

"Oh, Mike would have liked you too," he can't be sure of that, but in his heart he knows it to be true - they would have gotten along. He grins, "Not that you'd have been special - he liked almost everyone."

When Finch teases he would have preferred Kell to Damien, the ex-cop hums. If Moore had saved the right officer, the capo would be having the pleasure of meeting his best friend... Potentially. Highly unlikely. Mike would have been less prone to pursuing revenge, which is another reason he should have survived instead and been allowed to move on with his life, as Tom had expected of Blumenthal. Even if Kell sought justice, he never would have reached out to the Black Dogs, and he definitively wouldn't be sitting in a strip club having such an intimate conversation with their boss.

Damien doesn't believe for a second Finch would have preferred Michael over him. Where he finds the confidence for such a claim he doesn't know.

Regardless, that belief can never be tested. The three can never meet. Maybe if Kaden and Damien had run across each other sooner in their youth. However, the more the gangster keeps speaking of his life, the more Blumenthal is convinced even that scenario is... unlikely.

Any lingering amusement falls from his face at the horror that is Kaden Finch's past. Eight years old.

Damien stares wide-eyed, but Kaden isn't looking at him. No, he's fixing up the ex-convict's jacket when that's not necessary. Just like back in the consigliere's kitchen when he'd revealed the truth behind his moniker, the ex-cop's instinct is to reach out to comfort the man. His hand itches, unsure. Any gesture or words that come to mind feel woefully insufficient. This is the second time Finch has mentioned his mother, the one he supposedly doesn't remember much of. There has been no mention of a father... Fuck, Damien had nearly cried talking about his parents, the ones that had been there, if nothing else. The guilt is suffocating. The eight-year-old kid that should have been enjoying his childhood didn't have an adult to ask for help with his sick mom, or worse - he couldn't find one willing to help. No, instead he did a job for Delilah and ended up as a Black Dog. The ex-cop comes to the realization Finch has been surviving his entire life.

Damien can't begin to imagine what all of that must have been like, he doesn't have the experience to put himself in that position, not fully. It's not a pain he knows. Still, he wishes he could take it away from Kaden and share the burden, even if just a sliver of it.

"I'm sorry-" much like last time it's pathetic condolence, but before he can say anything further, Finch abruptly cuts him off, stunning him into silence.

I thought you were amazing.

An image of Conley from back at the diner flashes through Damien's mind and he has to bite down on his lip to stop it from trembling.

Kaden continues, telling him he'd hated him, that now he'd wanted to see how far he'd fallen. The continued fidgeting with his attire has ceased - the consigliere's palm rests on his shoulder, warm and grounding in the same breath he says the ex-cop disappoints him more and more every day.

Damien's hand itches again. This time, he lets it move of its own volition, slowly reaching up to hold onto Finch's arm that connects them. It's a light, uncertain touch, ready to be removed at any sign of discomfort from the capo. More than anything, it's ridiculous. It has no purpose being there - it's not to shrug off the gangster. Fuck, maybe it's to ask him not to move away, to keep touching.

"Kaden," Damien exhales all at once, finding his voice, "You have become something worthwhile, despite everything. Despite the hand dealt to you."

"But by worthwhile, I don't mean you being the Black Dog's consigliere." Sure, maybe the achievement of his position highlights certain qualities to be admired - resolve, strength of character, intelligence. However, he's all of that and more not because of his career choice. Not to mention, there is so much more to the man he doesn't exactly showcase in his line of work. Kaden's charming and funny and delightfully odd, and there is an unexpected kindness to him. The type of kindness that allows him to tolerate Damien, or to let a mourning son prepare to separate with family.

"I thought about you for a long time after we met originally. After I realized who you worked for. I admit, a part of my conscience was eating me up at letting you walk free," Damien allows a beat of silence before seemingly making up his mind, "I don't regret not arresting you. What I do regret is not dragging you off to the police academy."

With the context of how corrupt the NYPD has become, the ex-cop clicks his tongue.

"Or at least someplace else where you could channel your talents in a better direction," the ex-cop smiles, remembering how Kaden had helped him then. It's the reason he came looking for his aid 15 years down the line, "Imagine, you could have become a P.I., and a fine one at that."

Damien squeezes Finch's arm just a smidge, leaning forward, "You still could."

Has the Black Dog ever dreamt of anything like that? To "become something worthwhile", leave this life behind? Move on?

The mention of Michael's mother causes Damien to grimace, "No, she doesn't know and I don't want her to know. I hope she's forgotten all about me."

Does she still keep the albums of family photos? Maybe she's burnt them.

"I hope she's moved on. It's what's good for her."
 
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He doesn't want sorry. He doesn't need sorry.
His childhood wasn't terrible, it was just what it was.
Finch nibbles on his lip rather than look at Damien.

It was a better life than a lot got.

The contact makes Kaden shiver, but not in revulsion. His brain helpfully supplies the memory of Damien's hands on his neck, gentle yet persistent.
This is gentle, again. Everything about this man is evilly gentle. It makes Finch crazy, but it also makes him weak.
Weak in his resolve, weak in other places as well.

Finch has spent his whole life refraining from addictive substances only to fall headlong into whatever this is.

"You think so?" He asks lowly. Playing as Fleischer had been an invigorating diversion, but how would it be to truly be a P.I?
He could help people for a change. He could have a real, normal life.
But he'd lose everything he helped build, he'd have to start from nothing again. His life really would be a waste...

It's a relief not to be the focus. Damien's faith and encouragement in him is far too overwhelming.

"You're her son, Damien," he says, shifting closer but careful not to discourage that hand from his arm.
He told Damien he doesn't like touch so now the man never touches him and that's good.

"If I were her I would want to see you again."

But if he was under the believe his would be son had killed his biological son would he feel differently?
It's difficult to see Damien as a hardened killer. Ms Kell must have some inkling of that; she knew Damien all his life.

"I might be speaking out of turn but maybe you should write her a letter. She might surprise you, and if not there's no more harm done."
 
Kaden says he might be speaking out of turn and goes through with it anyway. Damien can't find it in himself to be angry, he has no reason to. It's bizarre to be referred to as her son, despite the fact that for a while that had more or less been the case. Is there really a chance she'd be okay with seeing him again? Could she handle that? Could he?

Finch is closer, his hand still on the ex-cop's shoulder. It burns and soothes at the same time much like his words, and Damien tilts his head slightly into that feeling.

"I don't know how good of an idea that is, Kaden..." he finally manages to rasp out.

There is still a lot of harm he could do to her, merely by existing in her presence. In the chaos of it all, Ms. Kell being at his trial had been the worst part of it - to be broken down before this unbelievably tenderhearted woman that had taken him in and ultimately suffered for it. She'd lost everything in the blink of an eye, and she didn't even scream at Damien, the one responsible for her child's death.

"Maybe I should," he shouldn't. Absolutely not. He doesn't know why he even entertains Kaden's ludicrous idea. The ex-convict furrows his eyebrows, biting the inside of his cheek, "But I don't know where she lives anymore, if she moved out from our- from her old place."

He can't imagine a world where she would have wanted to stay there. Still, the thought of her humble greenhouse being left deserted is a particularly cutting imagery.

Damien's hand on Finch's arm is an anchoring sensation that he uses to pull himself back into the present, shifting forward. Damien breathes in, gearing himself up to say more nonsense, "If she did move, that could be your first job as an investigator. Track down Ms Patricia Kell."

The nonsense is the idea of wanting to find Michael's mom to write her a letter of all things, not the idea that Kaden could be a P.I. Because of course the man could be, Damien meant what he said. He's already been doing extensive detective work this entire time, trying to locate Delilah. Or successfully finding the Montesanos and then the ex-cop through them, as much as that'd irked Blumenthal at the time.

With that in mind, the notion of hiring Finch to search for someone is particularly entertaining, in a strange way. Whatever smile is starting to form on Damien's lips suddenly falls and he sighs.

"Whenever I actually have the means to pay you. I've leeched off of you enough as is."
 
"Don't mock me, Damien." As if the man would trust Kaden with such an important job.
Yes, he can find people but without his resources? That would make it considerably more difficult.
And it's ridiculous, really. It's fantasy.
And Damien's cruel for playing with him like that.

Only... He isn't. The man is genuine.
Oh.

"I apologize for treating you so poorly last night," Finch mutters and finally finds the shame necessary to let his hand leave Damien's shoulder.
"I know what it's like to come from nothing. I shouldn't have used that against you. Presently, I have means and I don't think it's unreasonable to assist you. I know you'll find your feet."

He's not going to apologize about the tracker, however. He's still deciphering how he feels about that.

With a sleepy breath, Finch tilts his head further into his arm.
It's then the hard material of the ear piece makes itself known.
All at once the synapses in his brain start firing once again.
The capo sits up, pressing a finger to the piece to open up communication.

"Cade, we finished." His tone isn't hard, it's his regular voice and yet the contrast between it and the one he uses with Damien is considerable.
He allowed himself to become too comfortable.

Fuzzy static answers back.

"Cadence?" The capo stands up from the booth, glaring into space.
"If you're not answering me to be difficult I will not be pleased."

There's nothing.

---

He gets saddled with the shitty job again.
It's not body disposal, thank fuck, but being the guy in the chair (metaphorically speaking, the only chair he gets is the one in the car) is not a whole lot better.
Cade wants to be in the action or in bed. Those are the two things he's good at.

The Dog is thirty feet from a strip club and he's stuck outside.

Oh sure, he's forced to go to the uppity Cinderella ball, but when shit's actually exciting he gets left in the car.
Cade huffs, rubbing at his brow. There's no point in getting prickly about it. He's beaten that horse enough.

This is his old car. Not his old old car.
He dumped that one.
This is the first one he got after his new life started. It's practical, good milage, from back when he was a regular guy who bought a car once every ten years and agonized over the choice.

So it's not a complete surprise when he hears ringing coming from the glovebox.
The ring tone itself shoots him back in time, and it's the main reason he hunts the phone down to shut it up.
The government should invest in this old phone; apparently it's battery is so long lasting it can keep a phone running for months.

I got your number hiii

That's.... Either a girl he's slept with being cute or...
Cade grimaces. He glances up at the club, a quick back and forth before looking back at his phone.

Matilda says you don't answer this number anymore. That's okay. I'll just text it sometimes so I feel less lonely.

And if you ever read them you'll feel guilty also.

Cade cranes his head back, as if to ask the cosmic powers that be, why him?
He cuts ties for over a year and he relapses once for an hour and he's knee deep in it again. How is that fair? How is that how it works?

The Nakurra pull up, just on time. Punctual bastards. It's called being fashionably late.
"Heads up. The kid just pulled up. Two bruisers and that creepy looking translator his dad always had around."

And damn, is he ever creepy. Even this far off.
Less formaldehyde next time they dig him up would be Cade's recommendation.

Kaden doesn't even acknowledge him.

The gangster rests an antsy hand on the wheel, foot tapping away.
He's not five years old; he's not going to let it get under his skin this bad. He's fine. It's fine. Everything's fine.

There's a tapping at his passenger door. Through the frost, Cade can't exactly see, even leaning forward.
His best guess; a hooker taking advantage of the area. That would make-

The window on his side shatters. Glass falls in a hail.
The second strike slams into the side of his head. The cold bite of metal brings a pop of blood into his mouth, ears ringing.
That feral rage bubbles up so fast Cade thinks he's going to drown in it, he grabs his gun and fires through the shattered window. It's silenced, but he doubts if people aren't going to notice something like this going down.
He's not in the open, but he's not hidden either. They're ballsy, he'll give them that.

The attacker staggers away, letting Cade get out of the death trap that is his car. He can't maneuver in there, can't move.
The man on the opposite side of the car had the same idea.
He meets Cade, and then a third one.

The gangster gets one more shot off before the weapon's wrestled away from him.
One lousy shot that buried itself harmlessly into the sidewalk.

So he slams his fist into a face, twisting the man away.
The other Cade grips by the hair, slamming their head into the roof of his car.

Cade leaps onto the Nakurra's bucking back. His hands scrabble wildly for purchase until they find it.
In apposing motion, Cade twists. All at once the neck snaps in his arms, an audible horrible satisfying sound. The body goes limp.

And then in a cruel act of fate, the Nakurra he gave brain damage to on his car comes up behind him.
Not to snap his neck thankfully.
A cloth is pressed over his face, damp and sickly sweet.
Not the good kind of sweet, but the chemical laden kind.

Cade takes a few lungfuls before he slams his heel on his attack's foot.
He bends, rips at the man's shoulders and tosses the whole body over his back in a wild rage.

Cade stumbles in place, hand to his ear.
"Finch- either I'm unpopular or we're being duped."

There's nothing on the other end.

"Kaden!" He all but screams. Is the fucker making kissy eyes with Damien or some shit?

The Dog taps again at the ear piece, only to feel a piece dislodge itself and tumble down his shoulder.

Right, he got punched in the head.
That's really rotten luck.

He hears someone come up behind him again.
Cade catches the man's wrist in his hand, preventing the crowbar from lodging itself into his head.
He basks in the fear reflected in the man's eyes. It stokes the hungry flame in his belly. The chemical haze makes everything glow.

It also deadens the pain.

Cade doesn't notice the knife in his stomach until the guy leads him down there with his eyes.

The Nakurra smiles, glip.

It's such a condescending, irritating little face.
It's a face everyone has stored in their back pocket to make people like him feel like crap. It transcends race, gender and age. It's kinda beautiful if you think about it; all humans holding hands on the same shared trait of being an asshole.

Cade rips the knife out and stabs it deep in the fucker's throat.
That stupid grin drops and Cade adopts it instead. He's so pissed he can't even speak, his words are just a snarl.
The Nakurra's going to die long before he does.

And he does.

He drops to the ground, gurgling.
A second later, Cade also joins the ground, trampled there by yet another attacker. That stupid ass cloth is pressed over his face again and he can physically feel the brutal strikes he's giving weaken as he struggles.
It's chloroform, gotta be. Only chloroform would be this shitty at knocking him out.
But he guesses it gets him halfway there and that's not bad.

The ground is a hard, cold, merciless thing. He's warm where he's bleeding and he's reminded of the time he wet himself as a little brat on a school trip.
He can't remember what scared him then.
Just that the warmth was mortifying, but it was still warm.

His ankles are tied and he's shoved onto his front so his hands can be tied behind his back too.
Cade gets a mouthful to bite when they come too close to his mouth. He gives as bad as he can, and he thinks of that character he met in the alleyway.

That fight had been more fun.

These guys just outnumbered him and they didn't even have the sense to do it all at once or stick to a plan of attack.

The Nakurra slams his head into the concrete, nursing his bleeding hand but he doesn't try to gag Cade again.
No, one kicks him in the ribs instead. It echos pain down to his core, making his wound gush.
The Dog curls up, glaring daggers up at them.

In hindsight, maybe seeing his family for the last time was a good idea.
He got shit all in terms of closure, but maybe it offered something for them?

The last thing he sees is a boot coming down on him.
 
---

It takes Cade a hot minute to realize he's awake in a box and not drifting in the milky black bliss of unconsciousness.
If it's not the throbbing pain, it's the way the box suddenly moves and the inertia pushes him into one wall.

A trunk.

He's in a trunk. They didn't even put a tarp down. Amateurs.
He kicks where he thinks the car seats are, but really it could be the back of the car for all he knows.
"I'm bleeding all over your nice car," he growls and let's his head drop when his outburst goes unnoticed.
"Idiots," he adds for good measure.

There's no taillights to kick out. They got that base covered at least.
The 'I told you so' moment is going to be so fucking good. That's a silver lining to this situation and you can just try and rip it from Cade.
Sadly, he won't be there to see the pedantic bastard's face when he realizes how stupid he was for this. Cade said it was a trap, and what a surprise.
It was a trap.

Why doesn't anyone listen to him? He's right enough of the time he deserves at least some consideration. Hasn't he earned that?

This should be Damien, not him. It's not fucking fair.
He did everything right!

"If you're gonna use me as leverage you got the wrong guy," he yells, and even though his voice fills the small space and crowds his ears he doubts if the Nakurra can hear it over the engine.
He's been in their place.
He's never understood a single garbled mess coming from the trunk.

"...Kaden's not gonna do shit for me."

He's considering the benefits of rolling off his leaking side when the car slides to a stop.
He hits the wall again which means the one opposite is the lid. Cade shifts, getting his feet to face the opening.
Logically, kicking someone's teeth in isn't going to improve his situation, but it will make him feel better and that's something he's in desperate need of.

They take their sweet fucking time.

The rumble of the engine doesn't break.
At Cade's left a horn blares by.
He's not at the Nakurra's, not yet. He's still in the city.

Using whatever he has left, Cade slams his knees into the lid. It sets the wound in his side on fire.
Getting caught by cops isn't the best case scenario, but it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Even if it's just a civilian showing some neighbourly concern, that would be something.
"I'm in here! I'm in the fucking trunk!"

Shot are fired, and those Cade can definitely hear through the trunk.
They're barely masked thunder.

And then a blanket of silence falls.
In the dark, Cade can't keep count of time. It could be five seconds, it could be five minutes, but it feels like forever.
Is it Finch? Did he cancel the meeting as soon as Cade wasn't answering?

The car clunks, gingerly as the trunk lock is pushed free.

The muscles tense in Cade's legs as he draws back to kick like a homicidal kangaroo.

Light pours in when the lid lifts.

He registers, vaguely the face of Not-Vince.
The message from his brain to his legs to kick has already gone through, but yeah, that's the fucking guy.
And he's wearing a cop uniform.
 
---

Neil has had a busy day. Usually that's a good thing, but busy doesn't always equal productive.

The morning started off quite well, what with all of the information he had to follow up on, yet the evening is proving to be disappointingly anticlimactic - with Monesano's husband being some kind of an extreme homebody or whatever, the cop had only managed to set up surveillance across the street. That'd put a minor damper on his mood, but excitement remained that he had another lead waiting back at the precinct, all nice and cozy with tea in hand - the homeless man his subordinates had picked up. Imagine the grave displeasure when he got basically nothing of substance out of the guy no matter any pleasantries. Yeah, the asshole seems to be milking every second of his stay, like Kate had predicted, and it's not as if Neil can do much to get him to talk. At least not back at the station.

How annoying.

MacDarragh pouts and it's an oddly childish expression. He has had a busy day, but not busy in the right way. A man like him needs constant stimulus. Hell, right now he'd find an inane assignment from his employers preferable to the limbo of waiting. The phone stays obstinately silent, taunting him. Of course, they have nothing for him when he actually wants them to.

Neil has been left with no choice but to go out and try to find fun on his own. That's how he ended up on late patrol - Lonie doesn't get why their boss still acts like a beat cop given his captain position, but a pencil-pusher like them could never understand that this is where the action is to be found. Or better yet, made. The title of police captain simply allows you not to get caught, as does working for the High-Rise.

A part of Neil ponders whether it would be wiser to go looking for trouble at a bar, but getting to meet Wolf would be too much of a coincidence, and having an underwhelming tussle with second-rate scum or drunk idiots isn't particularly appealing.

MacDarragh taps his fingers on the wheel in rhythm to a tune in his head as he goes down the streets. It gives him a bit of a kick how other drivers instantly get on their best behavior around a police cruiser. Like misbehaving children. As funny as that is, though, what he's looking for is those that don't. It doesn't take him long to sus out a vehicle fitting his requirements.

The car doesn't stand out too much but it's nice, sturdy, with tinted windows. It goes down the road perpendicular to where he is, at just a bit too fast of a pace and that's enough for the policeman to latch onto. The lights on the cruiser go up as he makes a turn to follow. Every time MacDarragh performs a traffic stop, he imagines the possibility of the car in front of him accelerating. He's been in several chases over his career, but unfortunately, tonight seemingly won't be adding to those kinds of experiences. What a shame. The vehicle complies, maybe with some minor trepidations, but it does. Even if the engine is left running.

Neil is out of the cruiser in an instant, the door slamming shut before he walks forward calmly like always. The tune migrates from his fingers to his lips and he starts to whistle. This reminds him of his last traffic stop, the one that had taken an interesting turn. MacDarragh highly doubts Damien will appear out of nowhere again, but he can hope there will something at least slightly exciting. The occupants of the car prove his instincts right after he taps on the darkened glass and it gets politely rolled down a second later - two men, both rough-looking, criminal types. This city is just crawling with such people, isn't it? The captain imagines his cop-self feeling disappointed at the fact. It's a funny thought. The man on the passenger side clutches his hand when Neil smiles through the opened window. He isn't holding onto a weapon. No, it's a bloody piece of cloth. An injury then.

Well, not that it matters. Time to start on his routine. Looking as amiable as ever, the cop leans down to meet the driver's eye-line, "Good evening-"

A thud resounds from the back end of the vehicle.

MacDarragh's gaze shifts to look in that direction before refocusing on the two occupants. Their attention is in that direction too. Fuckers' have someone in the trunk. The passenger swears under his breath in what sounds suspiciously like Japanese and reaches into his coat with his injured hand, his buddy following his example shortly. They're too slow. Neil's hand was already on his gun - this interaction was going to end in violence no matter what. It simply got preemptively interrupted.

Several bullets ring out - three from MacDarragh into his targets, one from the passenger when he involuntarily shoots himself in the leg.

Then, silence.

The gangsters - the Nakurra - lie limply inside their car, and Neil himself stands still for several seconds, listening out for any further noises. None come for the time being. Regardless, Neil reaches inside the vehicle, retrieving the keys from the ignition.

The trunk comes unlocked with a click, and MacDarragh doesn't waste any time lifting it up to reveal whoever might be inside - the person that had so rudely interrupted what he was doing. When he's greeted by a familiar face, Neil's eyes widen. New York is way too fucking small.

MacDarragh laughs. It's the Dog who left him with a bite mark. Ah, was the Nakurra nursing a similar injury then? Makes sense.

Before the cop can say anything witty, Wolf tries to kick him in the face as a form of greeting and that lifts Neil's mood even more. He catches the man's leg before it can connect, holding it in his grip. Or, well, legs. His ankles have been bound.

"Told you I'd be seeing you, Wolf," Neil chuckles, meeting the Black Dog's blue eyes with confidence like this all was somehow planned beforehand, like it isn't some sort of absurd coincidental comedy. The captain should perform more traffic stops if he keeps running into interesting people like this.

MacDarragh grabs onto Wolf's legs with both his hands, intent on dragging him out of the car. This isn't the first body he's had to remove from a trunk, dead or alive. It's only after he twists the man onto his back for better purchase that he notices the injury at his side. That's another surprise, much less pleasant.

"You're bleeding," as if that needs stating. The cop purses his lips, leaning in to get a better look, fingers lightly prodding only to come away wet and elicit a small grunt of pain. It's difficult to perceive the extent of the injury in this lighting and in such a cramped space. Neil hums, straightening back out and unsheathing his tactical knife to cut through the rope at Wolf's feet. The second it falls to the ground, MacDarragh is back leaning towards the gangster, arms reaching to lift him much more carefully than the initial unceremonious drag MacDarragh intended. Sure, it's what he deserves for trying to kick him, but seeing Wolf tied up and wounded like this (especially by the guys now dead in the front seats) seems wrong. It doesn't fit the man at all and it pisses Neil off.

He grabs onto the Dog's collar, starting to slowly pull him up and out of the trunk, staying mindful of his state as much as that's possible, "Let's get you out of here. No need to bite, for now."

"How'd a guy like you end up bound and bleeding, and shoved into a trunk?"
 
His kick doesn't land. The guy catches it and smiles in a way that makes Cade's blood boil.

Of all the people to catch him like this, it's this guy. The universe has one hell of a sense of humor.
Kaden didn't recognize his handiwork but he advised staying away from the assassin.
Something about him being dangerous.

"You're a fucking cop?"
Cade never would have guessed that. Part of him still thinks it might be a disguise, but sometimes you can just tell when someone's a cop. Something in the way they stand, especially in uniform.
A hit man who's also an officer of the law. That's actually almost kinda funny.

With surprising ease, the guy grabs Cade to fish him out and yeah, that hurts like a bitch. The only reason he refrains from kicking at him again is the obvious commentary on his current state.
Guy's got a negative amount of concern in his voice while he dabs at the soaked spot like an ape.
It's crazy how flat he can make his voice when it's usually full of smiles. It's the closest Cade's seen him get to experiencing an emotion that isn't anger or excitement.

The knife slices through Cade's apprehension the same way it slices through the rope at his feet.
This is the first person he's ever had an unspoken agreement like this with. Yeah, Cade usually wants to pick a fight with anyone bigger than he is, but NV is the first guy not to hate him for it afterwards.
Of course, he does have the upper hand right now. That might be part of it. Maybe he wants to play with his food.

Sitting up hurts, but there's not much he won't tolerate if it means getting out of that stuffy trunk of doom. And Not-Vince helps, quite a bit. He's even careful not to aggravate his injury.

The air is cold and crisp and the city is still here and waiting.
He could run.
He doesn't know where he is, or how far he'd get but he could still try.

"My magnetic personality," he says and notes his hands are still tied. The Nakurra have zero respect for circulation or prisoner comfort, but then he did fuck them up pretty good.
It's too bad Not-Vince missed that. Cade was pretty badass back there. He isn't right now, but he was.

But talking about it would make it less badass.

"I appreciate the assist, but I can take it from here."
His first step without the bumper can't compete with a baby fawn. He grimaces, stumbling shoulder first into this crooked cop's chest.

He snapped a guy's neck with his bare hands. He fucking did and this guy is going to know him as the guy he choked and then found trussed up and bloody in a trunk.

"Untie me," he spits once he finds his footing.
"Right now, Vincent."
 
"Easy," Neil steadies the injured gangster when he stumbles into his chest, arm around his shoulder to keep him upright if his legs give out and he goes tumbling to the ground.

Yeah, he's been fucked up.

Impressively, it doesn't take Wolf long to find his own footing, which means things are not as bad as they could be. As much as he's bleeding, this isn't an urgent injury, though it could become one if left to fester. For the time being, it's good that he isn't doubling over in pain unable to move, or vomiting everywhere. He isn't burning up with a fever either, as a touch to his forehead confirms. What the Black Dog is is angry, snapping at the person that rescued him from whatever kind of kidnapping situation his "magnetic personality" got him in.

Wolf bares his teeth in a mistimed attempt at domineering, demanding he be untied this very instant and all MacDarragh can do is smile. Last time he met the man he'd been cocky, eager for a fight. That zeal hasn't left him now, though it fuels a kind of indignant rage that Neil finds just as entertaining.

"What, so you can "take it from here"?" the cop snickers, putting air quotes around the words. He tilts his head, for a second appearing just a smidge serious as if he's genuinely wondering, "How far do you think you'd get?"

A block away, maybe two? In his case potentially some more before the inevitable collapse. It's one thing bearing an injury standing in place, and a whole other thing attempting to walk with it, not to mention run.

MacDarragh's smile returns, "You'd just be hurting yourself more than anything else. And as funny as that would be to watch, it'd be a waste."

Neil stands shoulder to shoulder with the gangster, reaching an arm out like earlier, though this time it's around the man's waist. The cop has to lean down slightly, which isn't too convenient, but he offers a shoulder for Wolf to lean on. Or, well, forces it onto him. His hand rests on the injured spot in his side abdomen and the gesture is as much meant to stop some of the bleeding as it is a warning that he could poke at the wound whenever he wanted to.

"I'll untie you after I take a look at your injury."

MacDarragh begins walking the two forward, toward his cruiser. They need to leave the scene.

"It's my day job," the police captain decides to answer Wolf's earlier surprised question now, "You probably know what the back of a police car looks like, but I'll let you ride shotgun this time."
 
Cade hasn't decided yet if this is going from the frying pan into the fire yet. He glares, probably red faced as this cop teases him. The fact is he probably wouldn't make it that far, but he doesn't let his grimace drop on principle.

He knows this man's nutty like a fruitcake.
If he's helping Cade it's because it amuses him or some other psychopathic nonsense.
The Dog doesn't know how long that's going to last. He's never liked someone enough to torture them like this, not yet. Adding insult to injury, the cop checks his temperature like a worried hen and then proceeds to kidnap him in the most emasculating way possible.

The Nakurra are dead, perfect headshots for both of them from what Cade can see. They never had a fighting chance.

At the sight of the police cruiser, Cade drags his heels.
The pressure builds against his aching wound until he can't stand it, and it doesn't take much. Just a squeeze.
"You- fucking bastard," he growls, falling into the man's side again. He's a solid frame to lean on, but it felt better to be pressed against it in the heat of a fight.

Cade lets out a restrained breath once he's seated.
It's nice to be out of the cold.
But he's been a cop and a criminal and he knows going to a second location is a bad idea. The best case scenario here is being taken to a hospital.

His heroic captor shuts the door and just like that Cade's stuck again.
The guy rounds the front of the car, not particularly hurried.
The way he walks, the way he just...exists.
He's untouchable.

"When I die I'm going to shit and piss all over this seat," he warns and twists gingerly to half face the driver's seat.
It makes sitting a little less awkward, and he can keep an eye on his savior/captor. In a second, he'll rally and show some teeth. He just needs a minute.

The Dog hooks his chin on the shoulder of the seat, leeching all his weight off onto the leather.
What a fucking day.
It's too early to say, but he might be really hurt.
Not, going to die hurt. More like, racing horse that sprained its leg hurt.
The rope strains when he pulls, giving Cade some hope he's not as used up as he fears, but when he gives in he sinks further into the seat.

The cruiser looks like his did. They all kinda do.
Apparently NV likes to drive in silence on patrols and if anything that alone proves he's deranged. That's the only clue this man isn't as straight as he appears, the only one. He could have had kids in Cade's place during ride alongs and they wouldn't have a shred of belief Not-Vince was anything but what he presents as.
Oliver loves cops. He'd like NV.

"Do you do fucked up stuff for the city or have you been bribed by the gangs?"
The less he knows the better in a situation like this, but Cade wants to know.
If things had gone differently, if he'd been different, Cade could've been in a similar position.
 
The first thing Wolf does after Neil enters the car is warn him. Or is that a threat?

"You're already gonna be making a mess of my car, might as well go the whole way," the cop laughs at the disgusting description (what else can be expected of him, really?), "But it ain't gonna be from dying."

Cause he's not gonna let him die.

Neil looks at the Black Dog, who has turned himself to face him - the attention is appreciated, though that can't be comfortable. MacDarragh extends an arm towards the guy, but instead of pushing Wolf down into the seat he reaches behind the man for the seatbelt. A moment later, he's buckled in. Neil leaves his own seatbelt off.

The policeman rests his fingers on the wheel, gearing up to go, before eyeing the Nakurra vehicle in his rearview mirror. In one swift movement, he takes out his phone - the work-work one - and shoots off a quick text with his location requesting a clean-up. Is the High-Rise going to be displeased with his actions? Well, not like they aren't used to this from him, and not like he cares. He's a valuable employee, that's why he's been allowed to run amock for years. The most they'll do is "punish" him again. Or give him an earful. Probably both. Regardless, he'll deal with them after he deals with Wolf.

With that detail taken care of, the engine comes alive and MacDarragh can finally drive off, pulling away from the curb and into the street. The cop's hand is just going towards the radio when Wolf fills the empty silence of the cruiser with a question.

"Which one do you like better?" Neil meets the gangster's eyes just long enough to wink. Both options are hilarious, carrying out his acts of violence in the name of the city particularly so. Like some cheesy comic book vigilante. He grins, "Neither, I do fucked up stuff for me."

That's partially true, at least, though not entirely the case. Not always. However, it's not like he can tell this guy who he works for. It might sour their blossoming relationship a tad too soon for Wolf to know whose payroll the captain is on, cause calling it a bribe isn't exactly right. It implies a higher bidder can come along and hire out his services, yet Neil can't exactly work freelance, as fun as the idea sounds. The most he can allow himself is pursuing minor rogue interests or getting into trouble during company hours, like yesterday at the bar or tonight.

Neil shoves such vexing thoughts out of his mind for the moment.

The instant MacDarragh is far enough away from the scene, he throws up the police lights to expedite this ride as much as possible, "Special bonus for riding front seat in a cop car. Just for you. Hope you're enjoying it so far."

"So... while I believe your magnetic personality got you stabbed," it's not farfetched to imagine at all, even if it still bothers him that Wolf got hurt. This man gave him a tough time last night. How many guys had to jump him? It can't have just been the two the policeman shot. Neil eyes the gangster in his periphery, "Kidnapping you over it sounds less likely."

When a person pisses you off enough to warrant getting stabbed, you finish the job. You don't take them to a second location unless it's to dispose of a body, and Wolf is still alive and kicking.

"You're a Black Dog, aren't you? Why'd they take you? Extortion? Ransom? To torture you for information?"
 
Cade stiffens when this guy reaches for him, but it's not to press on his tender spot.
No, he puts Cade's seatbelt on, but not for himself.

Being tortured might have been preferable. At least with that Cade can feel like James Bond. Right now he feels like James Bond's girlfriend.
This twisted man takes out his phone, the same one from the night they met, and makes a few texts. No cops, he's getting the hitman version of this guy again. That's probably...bad? Maybe?

Cade's not above screen peeking, if he can get a scrap of a conversation he can figure out how screwed he is.
But the guy winks at Cade, and the Dog shuts his mouth with a click.

"Yeah, it's great." The only good part is how smooth the ride is compared to how jostled he was in the back of a car.
NV is not a terrible driver, but this takes Cade too far back memory lane
And each second takes him closer to wherever they're going and Cade still can't tell where they are.
All the buildings and landmarks look like the same dark blur.

Cade rolls his fingers up into a ball and the tips tingle with the barely there blood flow.
"No, I'm-" he starts, but doesn't get far. He calls him Wolf because he's a Black Dog. The white patch of gauze might mean the nickname comes from that too.
It's a hell of a lot better than stupid Short King. He actually did something to earn Wolf.

NV has got a part of Cade's body permanently carved into his skin. If Cade does die at least he can die knowing he left that there.

"...All of the above, probably," he answers only to grimace internally.
Cade knows this guy's a killer and a cop and he's seen his face too.
Letting him know where he stands on his own flagpole might put him right back in the trunk, if he still even qualifies as ignorant enough to let go at this point.

He said he'd untie him once he checked how he was doing, whatever that means.
How true is that?

"Why'd you nab me?" That's the real question. The real concerning question.
"You gonna harvest my organs? Eat me? Kill me in a really elaborate stupid way for a snuff series you're making on the side?"

Oh, Cade will take more than a biteful if that's what this guy's planning.
He won't go down without ripping some on the way. The Dog works against the ropes again, making his wound seep.

"My boss will be pissed when he finds me," he snaps, and tries not to imagine Finch looking at his corpse with vacant eyes.

"I've seen him pour liquid nitrogen on a guy's dick to snap it off ten minutes later like a bread stick. So... basically you're fucked!"
 
The surrounding pavement gets bathed in blue and red as the cruiser navigates the city streets, the other cars around it not only behaving themselves but also actively making way. It's a powerful, intoxicating feeling.

The Black Dog doesn't end up denying his gang affiliations. No, if anything he confirms he is a valuable enough member of the group to be taken for not one, but all three reasons Neil had guessed. The cop hums. What would the High-Rise think of who he has in his passenger seat, bound and bleeding? If he reached out to them with the information, handed the man over, it'd probably earn him forgiveness for the dead Nakurra.

Neil doesn't even consider the possibility. Wolf isn't theirs to take. He's another personal interest.

However, the gangster sounds worried about MacDarragh's intentions - wisely so - and the cop smiles, purposefully doing nothing to deter that uncertainty.

He considers for a second, talking as if the two are deciding on dinner options, "I like your ideas. How does pulling out your teeth one by one sound for a start to a snuff film? I think it'd be rather arresting. People say you have to capture an audience's attention in the first 5 seconds, you know."

Really, Wolf is way too hilarious. Then he mentions his boss.

Neil's grip on the wheel tightens barely perceptively, one corner of his mouth twitching up.

"Your boss?" is he talking about the Black Bitch? No, probably not. Plus, he'd called them 'he'. The hitman runs other possible high-standing Black Dog members through his head before settling on one in particular, "Who, the Butcher?"

He's never met the guy personally, but his reputation is well known, as is the obnoxious nickname. When Wolf describes that very creative process of castration, Neil can't help thinking the MO fits what he's heard.

MacDarragh's still smiling like usual, but the muscles in his jaw tense with a seething rage every couple of seconds. Finally, he opens his jaw opens with a small pop.

"Really, Wolf? Trying to intimidate me by calling on a bigger, scarier man?" it takes him only a single sentence to go from his usually sing-song intonation to something much more biting, mocking, "Ooo, how terrifying! Next you're gonna tell me your dad will beat me up."

He scoffs, leaning back in his seat. The cop doesn't care that Wolf has been stabbed. It pisses him off, but it happens. This on the other hand... people should fight their own battles. Especially skilled ones like him. Another bout of silence, and his eyes leave the road to pierce into the gangster, voice low.

"Don't disappoint me like this. I know you're better than that."

He has to be, Neil is rarely a bad judge of character. Wolf gave him a tough time, tough enough Neil left uncertain who would have won their fight in the end. They stood toe to toe. He left a fucking mark. Now he talks like this... MacDarragh takes a turn, sharper than he should, deciding on the spot where to take the Black Dog. The radio comes alive to blast music through the interior of the car. He isn't entertaining this conversation further.

---

It doesn't take long for the cop to reach his destination - a hotel. Not the ratty type, but unassuming enough. An affiliated place he's been to before under even shadier circumstances. The people here know him and his car, they won't bat an eye. Most importantly, there's underground parking.

Neil exits without a word, slamming his driver-side door a little too harshly. He walks over to the back of the cruiser, popping the trunk open to retrieve a black duffel bag as he shrugs off his outerwear. The cop's circle of the cruiser ends at Wolf's side which he unceremoniously pulls open as well.

"I'm going to put this on you," he states, gesturing to the jacket hanging off his arm, "And you're going to behave yourself while I get us a room. We have an understanding?"
 
The descriptive wording NV uses to tell Cade how he's going to torture him to death makes him wish his kick had landed.
He would've gotten some of his own teeth from the guy.

The mention of Butcher doesn't make the hitman anxious, it seems like it does the opposite.
The Dog draws his tongue over his teeth.

Cade was born to push people's buttons, more or less. Pissing Not-Vince off wouldn't be ideal but it would be satisfying.
Only he doesn't, no, Cade gets the weird feeling he's disappointed him.

Cade hides the roll of his eyes.

He's utterly and completely so sorry and devastated to be a less than titillating prisoner. Obviously, that was his goal after being kidnapped.

The cop does nothing to change his status as psycho, blaring music Cade knows he doesn't listen to because it's the radio and NV isn't sixty.
Passive aggressive fucking brat...

---
He should have used up his captor's good will to ask where he was taking him. No, instead he has to figure out himself if this parking lot is the den of some dangerous people or just a regular ass parking lot.

NV is clipped and uncharacteristically quiet when he opens the door, which doesn't help.

Cade's eyes dart to the jacket, only to follow the line of NV's chest up to his face. He takes good care of his uniform, good care of himself.
Everything's ironed flat or polished shiny.

Cade hates him for it.

With some shifting, the Dog gets his feet out and he's able to find the button to the seatbelt by himself with tingly shaking hands.

"Yeah, fine," he says and feels like a morose teenager, but excuse him. Cade's the one kidnapped, he's the one who deserves to be mad.

And he reserves that right walking through the parking lot and into the incredibly awkward elevator ride.
At least a corner gives him something to lean on that isn't a hitman.

The lobby's fine. It doesn't have a fountain of sea turtles or an aquarium filled with Nemos and Dorys, but it's not trashy either.
It is unfortunately mostly empty. Everyone's either in their rooms, in the pool, or they have enough sense not to stay in a crap hole like this in the first place.

It does have a visitor's book.

Peering at it from this distance, Cade can see where its been violated by a black cloud of scribbles some kid must have done.
Little brat left the chained pen hanging off the table though...

It hangs there, waiting. It has the slightest waving motion to it, the barest there sway. It catches the light on every swing, blinking at Cade.

It's one of those solid, metal ones too. Not the useless plastic.

The receptionist, an older man, gives them a funny glare when Not-Vince asks for a single room.
That expression deepens when the psychopath asks for a room with only one bed.
If he wasn't in uniform there isn't a doubt in Cade's mind the old fart wouldn't say something.
And why shouldn't he? They're two men getting a hotel room in the middle of the night.

And Cade's trapped looking like a stuck up idiot with his hands behind his back.
If he gets the receptionist's attention, NV might try and play a fucked in the head couple that role play this actual circumstance and Cade would rather die.
He honestly would.

Cade frowns hard, studying NV's profile and the duffel bag he has over one shoulder.
Is that what this is?
The demented fucker picks Cade up bleeding to Jeffrey Dahmer his ass and he didn't even wine and dine him first.
The Dog swallows, feeling just a touch faint. Probably from the blood loss.
He's dripping on their carpet, not much, but he is. The coat covers up the majority of it, but it doesn't do shit for the dark streak down his pants. It's painfully obvious he's hurt.
He limped in here for fuck's sake.

The receptionist won't look at him.
He says as little as possible to Not-Vince too.

If the gangster is going to make a move it has to be now.
Somewhere between subtle and casual, Cade drifts away. Not far. A mother duck wouldn't be concerned by the distance.
He puts his back to the table. With hands that have been numb for the past hour, he's gotta lift the hem of the coat up before he can even make a play for the pen.

It falls like a stage curtain multiple times before he gets the bright idea to hold the hem in one hand while he feels for the chain with the other.
It's hard to tell.
It's like he's wearing skin tight gloves for crying out loud. He can't feel anything, especially something as light as light chain.

The pen taps him in the thigh and that's the cue he needs to know the air he's grabbing is in fact the chain.

NV and the useless receptionist are finishing up.
Cade's only got time to do one of two things; take the pen with him or use it scar a message into the shitty desk.
It would be an improvement, and potentially more likely to help him than a fancy pen on its own.

He glares at the old man, with his barely hidden disdain showed so proudly on his face. Not-Vince is taller than he is and this crusty hotel clerk still finds a way to look down on him.
Cade sees his dad.

In one mean pull, the Dog tries to rip the chain from the pen.
 
The receptionist isn't at all happy to see Neil and his companion - the one who's leaving drops of red onto the carpet - but it's not like he can really object. Oh, his eyes do talk of great indignation, whether because of the current small mess in the foyer, the likely bigger future mess in the room, or some good old-fashioned bigotry (possibly all three), but it's not like any of that particularly bothers the officer. The old man is inconsequential, and he knows it like he knows the drill. It's better to get this over with quietly and quickly.

The process of checking in is familiar - MacDarragh supplies a name, his company credit, and waits. In his periphery, he keeps mindful of Wolf's state - there's a tiny bit of restlessness forming in his gut over the fact that he might have left the gangster to bleed out for a bit too long. The drive over was comparatively fast, but these next minutes of standing by to get a hotel key feel like an eternity. A limbo of waiting. His fucking favorite...

Neil's fingers rap along the top of the front desk.

A slight movement manages to grab his attention, hungry as it is to latch onto anything - Wolf has shifted away. Only slightly, but he definitely has. Neil repeats the rhythm on the wooden surface again, pondering with some mild amusement - is the Dog going to try to bolt off anyway, given his current state?

No, instead the man decides to do something even more entertaining.

The moment the receptionist places the cardholder in front of Neil, a light thud resounds from Wolf's position. Like something falling onto the carpet. The cop slides the key cards safely into his pocket as he turns to fully face Wolf. There, at his feet, is a pen, a short length of chain attached to it. Had the gangster managed to rip it off? That's good, that means he still has some fighting spirit left in him. Still, Neil has to clench his jaw shut to suppress a bout of laughter. He moves up to Wolf, placing his shoe on top of the pen to move it towards himself - it's metal. That can be slippery to hold onto, especially with bound, likely numb hands. He would have had better luck with something like plastic.

The captain kneels down, picking up the object before gingerly placing it in Wolf's front breast pocket and giving it a pat.

MacDarragh's smile is returning as he grabs onto the Black Dog's hood - his police jacket's hood - to start leading him away toward their room.

---

The moment they're inside, Neil pushes Wolf further in, letting go for just long enough to flick on the room lights. His grip wastes no time finding purchase once more a second later, this time on the jacket collar. MacDarragh maneuvers the two towards the bed onto which he more or less shoves the gangster so that he's lying on his back.

Any protests coming from the Black Dog he is content to simply ignore. The man's wounded (has been for a bit), his wrists are tied, and to immobilize him even further, the hitman kneels onto his upper legs in a partial sit, pressing down with a portion of his weight. Wolf would probably be able to throw him off under normal circumstances, which these are not.

The duffel bag Neil sets down on the other side of the bed, unzipping it. He takes out a disinfectant and a pair of nitrile gloves, securely sterile in their packaging. After his hands are clean, the gloves go on with that satisfying snap stereotypical of medical dramas. Or mad scientist flicks.

"Told you I'll untie you after I take a look at your injury, so stay still," that's as good a warning as the cop is going to give.

After unbuttoning the police jacket, he reaches for the man's abdomen with a pair of scissors, also sterile, cutting through the clothing there to reveal the injury.

"Tell me where it hurts. Or just shout, that works too," his gloved fingers begin prodding at the Black Dog's stomach, first far away from the injury where, thankfully, there is no muscle tension apart from one that the Black Dog might be putting on given his situation. Most importantly, there is no rebound pain when MacDarrgh presses down harder and then rapidly lets go. So, no signs of peritonitis, which would have been the worst-case scenario. As much as Wolf has bled out, no major blood vessels seem to have been disrupted either. Mercifully, the pain is localized around that singular stab wound.

"You're a lucky dog," Neil remarks grinning, finding Wolf's eyes, "Abs of steel, ay? As shitty as this is, it could have been much worse."

The thick outerwear of his winter uniform Wolf is currently lying on top of should be enough to stop the sheets from becoming too much of a mess. Regardless, MacDarragh reaches for one of the hotel towels left folded at the foot of the bed and places it next to the Black Dog's torso, on the side of the injury. Working fast, he takes out antiseptic and a bottle of saline solution from the personal EMT kit that is the duffel bag. Thoroughly soaking a gauze with the solution, he gets to work cleaning the area of both fresh and dried blood, applying pressure to deter any further bleeding as much as it has already comparatively eased up.

The more he wipes away with circular motions, the better Neil can see the extent of the stabbing, the jagged edges of where the blade cut through and was pulled out. The policeman frowns, "Was the one that did this one of the Nakurra in the car?"

It's not inherently life-threatening, sure, but infection is too much of a risk to simply bandage it up and call it a day, "How you holding up so far? I think I might have to stitch it shut."
 
Just like that the pen slips away along with Cade's life. He's really going to die in a B rated hotel.

The Dog fights tooth and nail, but his kidnapper just has to shove him forward and his momentum is redirected into the direction NV wants him to go.

This isn't how he wants to die.

He wants to go down fighting, not tied up having his teeth pulled out or a previous stab wound fucked around with.
He does everything but call for help. He should call for help, that's what a normal person would do.
NV shoves him through the door and he doesn't say shit.

"I'll fucking kill you!" He shouts that. He's cognizant of that much, and not of the several other obscenities he spews.
His back hits the bed and his brain just blanks white. It's the polar opposite of when he's in a fight.
Then he's zeroed in, focused, soaking it in. Everything is crystal clear.

Everything here is a shakey blur, animal brain pumping him with every cocktail of adrenaline and endorphins it can manage.
When he tries to scramble away, he's just pulled back into place.
Pressure keeps him pinned down. The bed dips with the duffel bag.

The only thing pulled out is a bottle and a pair of gloves, which the man puts on with unnecessary drama. Kaden wears a similar pair when he's working.
A shiny pair of scissors keeps his heartbeat up.

The freak he met in an alleyway is going to butcher him. For whatever reason, he didn't see this coming.

He goes still when the blade of the scissors draw a line of goose bumps up Cade's chest.
"It hurts where the hole is," he bites, trying to put as much acid as he can into it.

But the hitman is full of surprises. Cade's head is in the gutter of hell and horror and you can't blame him. He really believes for a solid half minute this guy is feeling him up in the most sterile, disinterested way possible.
He's on top of him and the Dog has his chest out; what is he supposed to think?

The hitman pulls people apart, and apparently he knows a thing or two on how to put them back together again.
Cade lets his head drop onto the squeaky mattress while he tolerates being medically fondled.

"Oh shit..." He huffs and feels a ripple go through his stomach when NV honest to God starts cleaning his stab wound. It stings, but it's mostly just cold.
Blinking blearily, he breathes through it, one messy gulp after another.

And it's not serious. The psycho killer says he's lucky.

"You were actually serious. You're such a fucking asshole." He really is going to kick this guy's ass. Just enough to pay him even.

"No," Cade answers, not half as smug as he'd like to be once he's caught his breath.
He finally has a chance to brag and he didn't bring it up himself. Unfortunately, he just spent the last five minutes trying to GTFO like a stray cat.
Feels a little funny bragging after that.

"I killed that one. And two before that one. Easy," he adds, and exhales a final lungful in a small whistle.
"So like three more than you did and they had the element of surprise."

It's the euphoria of walking into a room that doesn't have a videocamera that's making him talk this much.
And the blood loss.
NV's weight is firm and grounding, but the sensation sends cues to his addled brain that are completely inappropriate to the setting.

The dude's thighs are close enough to touch if he wasn't still bound. Like this, NV pants are tight enough to define certain places, stretched out around the upper thigh and where they meet in between his legs.
Following them leads to the guy's tapered waist, neatly framed in by a belt.

There's only so much context Cade's brain has for someone being in his lap while lying in bed.

"I am going to hurt you, man," Cade says because fair warning is fair play.
"Like a lot. And you're going to fucking deserve it too."

NV isn't holding a pair of scissors or needle and thread yet so Cade takes the opportunity to buck up with his legs.
Not enough to toss him, but unbalance him maybe.
 
Finally, Wolf regales him with at least part of the story as to how he got got, and the police captain listens intently.

"Impressive," MacDarragh whistles in appreciation. Of course, he got jumped by multiple people, it's the only thing that makes sense. Three dead and one until-recently-alive one nursing a bite wound - it's a good turnout. Maybe the fight wasn't as "easy" as the gangster is making it sound given the end result, but Neil believes him. Considering how nasty Wolf is in a brawl, it would have been a thrill to watch. He gazes up at the man through his lashes while still in the process of cleaning the injury, smirking after a moment of silence, "And your boss didn't even have to help you."

It's an unnecessary comment, but the cop is still a bit peeved over the "threat" made toward him in the car earlier. Just a little bit.

In response to how he's holding up, the Black Dog threatens MacDarragh again, and it's an actual threat this time. He swears to hurt him. That's more like it. It also means he's holding up well.

"Looking forward to you trying," Neil chuckles and it's genuine. He's hoping for no less, they have to finish what they started last night, but not like this. Not while one of them is injured, "But after you heal up. Otherwise, it's no fun."

The stab wound is as clean as it's going to get, and luckily there doesn't appear to be any debris in it, so Neil can get right to suturing it shut, even if Wolf hasn't exactly given his express permission. The cop is in the mids of deciding exactly how to go about this new objective, when Wolf shifts underneath him in one solid movement, bucking up.

He doesn't have the power to throw MacDarragh off currently, as expected, but he does manage to unbalance him, sending the policeman keeling forward. It's not too hard of a topple or anything. Neil easily shoots out his hand to steady himself on the bed, palm in the sheets right next to Wolf's head.

MacDaragh blinks, quiet for a moment, before a shit-eating grin splits his face. He's not quite face-to-face with the Black Dog, not yet anyway. The rest of the distance is easily closed when he leans down, holding Wolf's eyes the entire way as he looms over him. MacDarragh's voice drops to a deeper murmur, "Careful, Wolf. You're in no condition for that."

His grin widens - Neil is the type of guy that always has the capacity for more, even when you least expect it.

The cop takes his sweet time straightening back up, just like he takes his sweet time giving the gangster a once over trailing down like a caress from his face, to the tattoo on his neck, to where he cut a nice window into his clothes, only to land on that pesky cut in the man's abdomen. With a hum, Neil reaffirms his weight on Wolf's thighs and reaches into the duffel bag again - this time he comes back with a small stitch kit and a thin tube of cream. Local anesthetic. MacDarragh spreads several small dollops of it around the wound, massaging them in. The area should start numbing over sooner rather than later.

"That should stop it from hurting too much while I close it up, but just in case," the cop's belt - the one he'd clocked the Dog looking at a bit ago - comes off in one swift movement, and he offers up the soft leather to Wolf's mouth, "Do what you do best and bite down."
 
Finch wasn't there. And even if he was, their fearless leader is showing less and less balls as time goes on.
The only one he seems to like kicking around nowadays is Cade.
"Nah, you did instead."

His push dips the hitman into his space. It's the first time he's seen the guy look even a little bit surprised.
A few locks of dirty blonde hair fall free to frame his face. It doesn't do much to make the cop look any less intense, in fact it boxes his smile when it grows in.
The man stalks up like a snake, all too happy to have the excuse. The man's voice has a certain edge to it, the warmth of his breath on Cade's skin.
If the Dog had his hands free, he'd grab a fistful of hair. Or maybe he'd just take his throat.
He wants to see if he could collar it in one hand. The cop looks dainty enough for it.

"You're nuts," the Dog observes, and not with the criticism something like that should have.
He can't decide if he wants to cage that crazy or break it. Maybe he just wants a little bit of it for himself.
NV's eyes go over him, sizing him up in a way he hasn't before that makes Cade a bit self conscious and something else.

It's interrupted when he seethes through his teeth at the insistent massage in the last place he wants touched. It's unfair something this pretty could be this backstabbing-ly dangerous.

Why does he always gotta stick his nose in crazy?

Cade glances at the belt and then up at the green eyed terror in his lap.
Mouth parting, he lets it be lodged between his teeth.

He can't see that well from this angle, but he can feel when NV goes back to work on him.
It almost feels like when Cade had scrambled for that pen. There's a barrier between his skin and the grab of rubber gloves.

The belt in his mouth gets some use when the first stitch actually goes in.
It's not the needle going in so much as it is the alien pain of the two sides of torn gangster being pulled back together again. It's a weirdly wrong feeling, too tight.

A groan from his chest finds it's way out, but he feels better about the admittance of pain than last time.
Green eyes doesn't seem bothered by stuff like that. He doesn't like pussies, but being in pain and not being able to stand up for yourself might be two different things to him.

He actually saved Cade, and kidnapped him so he could do this to him personally. What in the world does that say about him? Who is he?
And why does he like Cade? Because he's mean? If so, he must have twenty dozen Wolfs he likes to fuck around with and Cade's not special.

Maybe that's just what dangerous men do. They collect things that make them feel anything.
Kaden's got Damien, and the idiot doesn't know how bad that is. A tracker is the tip of the ice berg when it comes to that Terminator.
 
Neil takes his time closing up the wound properly and meticulously, sowing skin back together one small length of surgical thread at a time. He works with hand and needle holder intermittently, until the two edges of the cut start to meet, like they'd never been apart to begin with. Wolf doesn't appear in too much pain, but the occasional groan coming from him is a pleasant rumbling backdrop to the process. Good thing he'd accepted the belt, even if MacDarragh is too focused to fully appreciate the exhilaration that comes from it being in his teeth.

The wound isn't that big and soon enough the hitman finishes up, tying off a final knot in the thread and cutting any excess of it nearly flush with the Dog's skin.

Neil leans back, admiring his handiwork with a prideful grin. He did a fine job.

However, the hitman doesn't linger to bask in that feeling, applying a last thin layer of antibiotic before covering up the suture. A piece of gauze goes over it, secured in place on all sides by medical adhesive tape the cop rips with his hands. Then, holding onto a bandage roll, Neil finally removes himself from Wolf's lap, not before tapping at the Dog's hips to raise them up for a moment. Going about it as quickly as he can, MacDarragh wraps the soft cloth of the bandage roll around the gangster's abdomen several times over, making sure the dressing is tight, but not uncomfortably so. Just enough pressure to prevent things from opening back up too easily. That gets tied off in a knot as well.

And just like that, he's taken a look at Wolf's injury, and then some.

Now this feeling Neil allows himself to bask in, sanding up straight at the side of the bed and smiling down. His eye-line trails back up to the gangster's face, taking the same pathway it had gone down before. Green eyes holding onto blue, the cop slowly retrieves his belt.

The cleanup is easy enough afterwords, and MacDarragh does it humming to himself - the now-soaked with blood and saline hotel towel gets discarded in the bathroom, and he retrieves the trash bin from there to fill it with anything that needs disposing of. He's going to have to do a small restock on some EMT supplies later.

"The room has been paid for for the night," Neil speaks up, "Feel free to use it and feel free to grab anything you want from the minibar. My treat." That last part he turns to say with a wink, despite knowing full well the hotel fridge is underwhelming, to put it plainly. The painkiller he leaves on the nightstand next to the Black Dog would have been much more important to note.

"Or call someone to get you after I leave."

Neil sits back down on the bed, this time at the gangster's side. There's one thing he has left to do. The blade feels light in his grip.

"As adorable as your antics usually are, I recommend behaving for once," he leans down towards the Dog, similar to what he had done a couple of minutes go, "Cause you might open my handiwork if you struggle. Not that I wouldn't enjoy stitching you back together again."

Pushing Wolf onto his uninjured side, MacDarragh places the tactical knife up to the rope keeping the man's wrists bound. The cop feels at his fingers - they've turned blue and cold at this point. The Nakurra truly have no finesse with such things. In one decisive cut, the pressure around Wolf's wrists releases.

"For now, rest."
 
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