Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

[dreaming enthusiast]

There aren't many people that believe Damien. So few, actually, he can count them on a single hand. Most of them are convicts, like him, that could at least somewhat sympathize with the man's plight. Unlike Damien, they remain incarcerated still.

The only one on the outside that's ever trusted in his words is Nat, yet despite the immeasurable amount of help the woman has provided and keeps providing, even she turned her back on her friend initially. Until she picked up the scent of something rotten sweeping through the city as well, and the ex-cop's claims suddenly felt real.

In contrast, the ease with which Finch says he believes him catches Damien off guard.

No matter how closely he inspects Kaden's face for signs of lying, Damien fails to perceive any. Against his better judgment, he feels comforted by the thought. It makes him grimace when mixing with the events of the Moonlit Wolf, and the man turns away to stare at the road in silence.

Mercifully, Vartan Park comes into view not long after. They've reached their destination.

"Soon..." Damien is looking around, gaze sweeping over the mostly vacant space, waiting for something.

As if on command, a dark green, almost black Kia comes speeding round the corner into the parking lot.

"There she is." Damien chuckles, reaching for the handle of the car door. He's more than ready to get some fresh air, but at the last second, he stops himself... The look he throws Kaden is long and contemplative, held for a few breathless moments that end with a resigned sigh, "You can come along. Maybe even ask some questions, on the condition that you're careful about it. Also, let me handle introductions."

Then he's out.

A few solitary moments pass on the inside of the Mercedes before its passenger door is opened once more and Damien peeks his head back inside.

"And get the antivenom ready."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

It comes as a surprise, both the questionable driving of the arrived vehicle and Damien's sudden allowance of his presence.
Back at the bar he seemed very adamant Kaden have no direct contact with his informant.

Regardless, Finch isn't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, not this one anyway.
"Of course," he reassures, climbing out of his seat.
"I already stated I wouldn't let you become incapacitated, much less in front of a police officer. Unless you do something to change my mind, I feel no present urge to kill you."

The November chill greets him with a vengeance as soon as he's left the car, but he can't bring himself to miss his gloves.

Finch looks ahead, clenching his teeth enough to hear the grind through his jaw.
This was reaching, even for him and yet a ball of anxiety riddled optimism is curling up in his stomach with every step. Damien seemed confident, but he didn't even know what Kaden was looking for.

That was its own issue.

Potentially, Finch would have to reveal certain things Delilah would cut ears off for. But at this point what choice did he have? Every option had to be exhausted, no matter how improbable.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

The weather that had been bothering Damien earlier in the day now feels like a much-needed shock to the system, its contrast with the warmth of the car refreshing. As chill air fills the man's sinuses in a deep breath, he does however become acutely aware of how numb the hand that's been gripping the improvised ice pack is. Well, it's not an ice pack anymore, just a wet and bloody towel hanging in his clutches.

Conveniently, he discards the cloth in a nearby trashcan directly on his way to the Kia, the engine of which has come to a stop, its driver-side door opening in a rush as its occupant appears to have noticed the approaching Damien.

"Hey, Nat." the ex-policeman has already crossed the distance when something impacts his chest.

Yet another punch, even if not one with the intent to cause pain.

"You-" a low and clear voice comes through, cutting itself off briefly before proceeding, "Don't you ever turn your phone off at a time like that! Do you know worried I was?!"

Damien looks down to see a clenched fist at his chest, holding onto several packets of varying gauze pads. He might feel guilty if he didn't know Natalia hadn't bought these simply for his sake. He's acutely aware of his friend's habit to maintain a good reserve of medical supplies in her car in case her kids ever need any.

Not getting any response from Damien back, Natalia scoffs and shoves at him once more, leaving the ex-cop to hold on to the gauze pads. The woman looks slightly disheveled as if she'd left home in a rush - her shoulder-length auburn hair tousled, and wearing casual clothes not quite fit for such a cold November. With her flushed with frustration as she is right now, the wrinkles of age on her otherwise well-kept face show that much more, making it evident she has at least a couple of years on the man standing in front of her. The man she is currently staring down disapprovingly.

It's only after she notices the damage on his face that Natalia's expression softens, furrowed brows leaning towards worry.

"What happened to you?"

"I got jumped." the lie leaves Damien's lips effortlessly, emotionlessly, seemingly prepared beforehand, "Some guys wanted to rob me. They only managed to steal a little bit, though."

"Uh-huh... Where did that happen?"

"On the subway. Thanks for these, by the way."

The gratitude at the bandages doesn't do much to mollify Natalia. The policewoman's eyeing Damien in the way a parent might be looking at a child they aren't sure is lying or not, and they can't definitively prove it either way. She seems glad he's safe, but the exaggerated twist of her mouth makes it abundantly clear she has her doubts.

These doubts only worsen as she finally notes the unfamiliar figure standing a few feet behind Damien. Instinctually, Natalia's posture straightens out, her hand resting at her waist holster. Though she's average in height by all accounts, it's obvious her physique is rather stout, made more severe by the harsh shadows of the park's streetlamps. Her warm brown eyes go from Kaden, to the ex-policeman, to the Mercedes, back to Kaden.

"And who's that?"

That lie Damien's ready for as well. He doesn't even have to think of a fake alias for Finch. Not since he heard The Butcher.

"Mr Fleischer. He's a private investigator."

Nat's ears perk up at those words.

"He's the help you told me you were going to get?"

"He is."

Silence settles over the immediate bubble of the parking lot, only the ambient sound of the city streaming in. Nat is trying to assess the situation, still uncertain but halfway hopeful. She knows Damien isn't telling her everything - he never does, claiming it's for her own sake. But if this guy actually is a P.I...

Damien turns slightly to face Kaden, arm extending towards the policewoman as he breaks the silence, "This is who we were talking about. Meet Sergeant Natalia Montesano."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Once again he passes a trashcan, sans gloves.

Kaden stays back, not because he's unsure but because it would be rude otherwise.
His first impression is that she's nice, as far as police go. Aggressively kind and attempting to hide her concern behind bravado.

Finch is content to stay behind Damien, until he's introduced.
However, he side eyes Damien at his supposed name.
Finch stifles a huff at being thrust an identity with no preparation. A private investigator, how creative.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says, folding his hands behind his back to avoid a handshake.
Now, how did he explain himself without sounding like he was in need of psychiatric help?

"I have been involved in the investigation Damien is pursuing for a number of years. He contacted me for help and I thought we could be mutually beneficial to one another."

Whether that was before or after Damien was 'jumped' was on need to know basis.

"However I am also..." He clears his throat, "Investigating a missing person case I believe to be connected. I don't have the resources you do so I was wondering if you would assist me."

All he needed was to convince her to let him look at some files, but even word of mouth would be satisfactory.
Only what he wanted to look at most likely wasn't clear for civilian use.
And how much would he have to give away? Should he use an alias of hers and act as though she's another missing nobody... Or make it clear she's the mob boss for the Black Dogs that he's hunting?

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Yeah, pleasure," Natalia takes note of the reluctance to shake hands, and her face shows it. Rude. Containing her emotions has never been the policewoman's forte.

The same can't be said of Damien, who she glances at quizzically as if to say "what's up with this guy?", only to get a measured shrug in reply.

The ex-cop intends to stay well out of this situation and watch Finch figure it out on his own, especially since this is the first time he's hearing anything about a missing persons case. One connected to his own investigation if that part isn't just a lie. Annoyance and interest in equal parts settle in Damien's chest as he crosses his hands over it, listening intently to the conversation.

Natalia's face has switched over to concern by the time Kaden finishes speaking, her posture subconsciously becoming a lot more casual.

"A missing person? What exactly makes you think it's connected?" she put heavy emphasis on the second sentence, "Honestly, you'll have a much easier time finding out anything if it isn't connected to that whole... mess. Then I can let you look over any related documents we have on file. The public ones, I'm sure you know. But if it is connected..."

Nat's staring between the two men again, dwelling on something. Eventually, her mind appears to settle and she continues with a sigh, "I'm gonna need more info. You know who the person is that went missing? Where and when they were last seen? Who saw them last? Gotta give me all the details you have, Fleischer."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

He was both afraid of this and expecting it.
Well, he doesn't have to give away all the details, does he? Natalie gives the impression she's a professional and that assumption is proven when her skepticism gives way to sincere interest.

"Her address is 393 West End avenue, apartment 3G. It's around Lincoln Square. Her residence is under the name Sofia Gomez. She went missing a day ago. Won't answer her phone, missing meetings- it's not like her at all," he says cutting through any, 'you have to wait a minimum of seven two hours nonsense' before it can get started.

"I was the last person she was with as far as I know. We were having dinner at a restaurant. She's my...client. We were discussing a different case with a few like minded individuals. She said she was tired and that she wanted to be alone. The morning after she wasn't answering any messages," he says, looking away.
She was having an off day, but that wasn't cause for concern at the time. It wasn't.
How many times had Delilah ignored his calls in the past?

Kaden exhales a puff of curling steam into the cold air. He brings his cold hands forward to clasp them together, but it does no good.
"There's not likely to be any reports filed yet. Really, I would appreciate it if you could access the cameras outside the building between the hours of one a.m of that night to three p.m of the next day."

He didn't need much. Just something to go on, that's all.

"And keep whatever you find between yourself and I, if possible."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Both Damien and Natalia are listening closely, with her nodding her head every now and again to signal that she's taking in the information. A notepad filled with big-lettered shorthand has appeared in the woman's grasp, retrieved from the car midway through the discussion. As she quickly finishes writing, a slew of follow-up questions sit right at the tip of her tongue, but Nat's become somewhat proficient at telling when a person has given all that they are willing to give. This is not an interrogation, so there's no reason for her to push. The provided details - pretty abundant, by all accounts - are more than sufficient to work off of.

Nevertheless, she clicks her tongue, "Lincoln Square? That's not my precinct."

"Not like that's ever stopped you before. Plus, you probably have friends there, don't you?" the ex-cop finally pipes up.

That earns him a narrow-eyed stare, "... I do..."

"You won't even have to involve them if it's just asking around or checking out CCTVs."

Damien can recognize the performative bit of reluctance the policewoman is putting on. It's painfully obvious to anyone. Natalia made up her mind to help a long time ago, and it takes only a few seconds to prove that assumption right.

"I'll see what I can do," she assents, "And, sure. Whatever I do or do not find stays between you, me, and Damien.

"I assume you'll be working on both investigations together," it sounds less like assuming, and more like she's speaking that fact into existence, not waiting for a reply before turning to her friend, "I'll contact you if anything pops up."

"Of course. Thanks again, Nat."

"Thank me by not getting into any more trouble," she huffs. Implicitly not trusting Damien to take her request to heart, the next part she addresses to Finch, "Please make sure he doesn't get "jumped" again."

"So, is there anything else or are we done for now? It's freezing out here," to prove a point, Natalia starts vigorously rubbing at her arms, "You gonna need a ride, Damien?"

"No," he shoots Kaden a meaningful look, "Fleischer and I still have some things to discuss."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

To be clear, Kaden never had any aggressive or violent designs on this encounter. Damien would either persuade Natalie into cooperation or he wouldn't and that was that.
Finch knew where he stood and had come to terms with that fact. So when the policewoman spares him a suspicious, long suffering look before hesitantly offering to help he's surprised. And yes, Damien nudges her in the right direction but Kaden gets the feeling she was already headed there in the first place.

Natalie's... genuinely well meaning.

There's an uncertainty he feels, at being helped of all things. He's not suspicious knowing neither of them have any reason to hinder him, not now anyway, and yet his skin itches.

"I'll do my best," says the man who poisoned him and had him beat up in the first place. As mysteriously as she arrives, she leaves. It's not a van, thank goodness, but it's not the vehicle a single woman drives either.

There's a cigarette on the ground, several actually. Soggy with snow and smushed into the sidewalk. Damien reeks. The inside of his car reeks.
Kaden scowls, rubs at his eyes.

"I need caffeine," he states plainly before taking off in a direction that isn't the car.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien's eyes trail after Natalia's car as she pulls out of the parking lot and disappears back into the night. If it can even be called that, all the lights glaring from the city overwhelming the night sky. The intensity of New York is almost exacerbated in the relatively dark quiet of the park.

In Nat's wake, he's left holding onto a single packet of small gauze pads, having returned the rest to their rightful owner. He hopes she's going to be alright. Without a doubt she'll full-heartedly throw herself at this new request - that's just the type of person the woman is - and it is simple enough that it shouldn't set off any alarm bells within the police force. The idea that Natalia isn't in too deep just yet helps alleviate some worries, even if only by a little bit.

Damien's focus is returned to the present when Kaden appears to start walking away.

"And I need that antivenom you promised to administer," the ex-cop quickens his pace to catch up with the other man, falling into step beside him. His right hand still feels numb, though he reasons that that has nothing to do with on-set paralysis... It gets quickly shoved into his coat's pocket.

"That went well. I hope you're satisfied with the quality of my "contact". So, who is it you're actually looking for?" Damien leans forward slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of Finch's expression, "... Did you mean it when you said it was related to my investigation? Does the High-Rise have something to do with it?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The briskness of the air stings in his chest, somehow satisfying and the feeling of moving puts some of his thoughts at rest.
The silence doesn't last, but Finch can't blame Damien for that.

"My boss. Delilah," he says, and the questions keep coming. Relentlessly.
"Yes. Also, yes. Probably. I don't know."

It was hard to imagine anyone else being behind it. The fucking High-Rise...

Abruptly, he stops. Damien overshoots him, only by a step or two.
It's enough disorientation for the capo to grab Damien by the lapels of his jacket and push him down into a park bench.

Finch takes his case of needles out, pulls the one needed from his arsenal.
"Mainline it into your arm. Inject at a fifteen to thirty five degree angle towards your heart with the needle bevel facing up. If you go too deep you could hit an artery. Alternatively if you miss the vein the antivenom will soak under your skin and will not be absorbed into your blood in time to stop you from dying. Boot it by pulling back on the plunger to let blood in before pushing down. Pull out at the same angle or you'll bruise. Can you do it yourself or do you need my assistance?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Fuck," Damien's jaw tightens and he feels a familiar cold rage in his gut. Apart from that, the fact that the High-Rise is potentially messing with another group's boss can mean only bad things. How big has their operation gotten? "You didn't tell Nat everything about your boss' disappearance. What other information do you have? I'm willing to help-"

The ex-cop's line of thought is interrupted as he feels himself get dragged off to the side and pushed onto a bench. He's about to protest before noticing the now-open needle case.

Damien doesn't deign Finch with a reply, instead throwing off half his coat to roll up the sleeve of his right arm. The numb one.

He doesn't have much experience injecting himself (or anyone, for that matter) with mystery substances, but he has seen it done enough times to have a general idea of the process. Plus, Kaden's instructions help immensely, as loathe as he is to admit it. He squeezes his fist hard several times before holding tight, and even in the somber yellow glow of the overhead streetlamp, a blue vein pops in the crease of his elbow.

Damien angles the needle as instructed, its tip right above his skin. A thought gives him pause.

What if this isn't the promised antidote? It could very well be another poison he's being fooled into willingly intaking. That'd be a laugh. He glances over to Kaden. No, the Black Dog seems earnest enough. At the very least, he needs Damien as a means to contact Natalia. He'd sounded... genuinely concerned talking about Delilah going missing. It's an emotion Damien knows well.

The needle goes in with only the tiniest prickle of pain, and he pulls back on the plunger to check if he managed to enter it correctly. He didn't. Thankfully, the immediate second attempt goes through successfully, and soon enough the contents of the injection are emptied into his system.

Damien allows himself a breath of relief as he retracts the needle from the same angle it went in, handing it over to Finch to dispose of as he sees fit. In the meanwhile, he takes out a gauze to press over the now slightly reddened area.

"Thanks," he nods. It feels weird to be thanking the man that put him in this situation in the first place, but that's where he currently finds himself. He's already back up on his feet.

"As I was saying, I'm willing to help. Beyond running messages between you and Natalia, if this truly does concern the High-Rise. Speaking of which, you still haven't told me what you know about them... Said you wanted coffee, right?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden holds in his breath and promptly releases it when Damien wordlessly takes the needle.
He doesn't have his gloves which meant he would have had to touch skin directly. Of course, he would have if he had to. He would have.
But watching Damien whom is surprisingly adequate at following instructions he realizes he won't have to. The man does pause in uncertainty and Finch feels dread.

The man's no longer under his thumb.
Kaden feels more like he's under his.

"Right," Finch says with a nod. "I know a place nearby."

--- coffee transition ---

"Can I interest you in something else, hon? We got fresh pie."

The waitresses voice is smooth like molasses. Crow's feet line her eyes, but her smile makes her look young. Immediately, Natalie comes to mind, in despite of the wide berth of differences.
How many children did she have, if any? Two, three? Four, maybe. How old were they?
Were they in diapers or already well into their way through school?

The thought of putting food in his face makes his stomach ache.
Still, he can't remember the last time he ate. Or slept that well for that matter either. How long can the human body survive off of coffee? Supposedly three weeks, but he finds that hard to believe.

What sounds manageable?

Natalie can't have time to make breakfast for her children, not with the passion she has for her job.
She must just pour cereal for them and pop some toast before sending them out.

"Milk, please. Some raisin bran. If you have it."

The waitress quirks a brow and Finch remembers it's past eight.
Right.
The waitress turns to Damien, hoping to take a more predictable late evening order.

The diner's nice, nice in the way homely middle-class places are. The booths are torn in some places, showing an interior of fluff. The varnish on the table is chipped along the edges.
The salt shaker is glued to the table by some congealed goo this morning that was missed when the waitress went by.

But it's quiet. And they have coffee.

Down further there's two cops, sharing a few pastries, the stereotypes be damned. They laugh at one another's jokes, rocking their table each time they slap it with a hand. No doubt contributing to the poor wear and tear of said tables.

"Everything you've said about the High Rise is correct, as far as I know," Finch informs once they're alone.
"They own most of New York. Couple years ago they started in on Manhattan. You can't have the fire and man power they have without outsider help. I don't know how deep the corruption goes or who's at the head, but I do know some of the upper ranks."

His fingers fidget with one of the tiny coffee creamer boxes, tipping it up and over. Up and over.

"Few days ago we were discussing plans with the Nakurra on what to do. The Nakurra suggested becoming allies, but there's no benefit to an alliance with something so weak. Like when you came into my bar asking for help and offering very little in return. It shows unflattering weakness, particularly to accept such an offer," he says, looking at Damien over his mug before taking a sip.

"I and Delilah suggested we join forces and fight. The Nakurra believe it to be suicide. I believe every other option to be likewise. Most gangs grow based on their level of violence and cruelty. The High Rise would have to be murdering infants to have the growth they do. No, their crutch is the limitation of outright violence they can cause. I believe if we show a force of power the High Rise will see the potential casualties and back off without calling my bluff. But if they have Delilah and she's alive they might use her to put me into an uncomfortable position."

The creamer pops from his grasp, tipping down the seat to the floor to be lost forever. He picks up another, continuing the fidgeting.
"What are you hoping to accomplish? Who do you want removed?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

The diner feels nostalgic. It's the first time Damien has set foot into one of these establishments since his release. Maybe he's even been avoiding it. This one in particular gives off the impression that he's somehow stepped through time into the past. Unlike the changed city, here everything feels stuck in place, untouched by the years. It's painful, in a way.

That feeling is only made worse by the sight of the policemen seated in one of the booths. Damien doesn't recognize them and he hopes they don't recognize him either, yet he can't help staring in their direction every now and again. Their faces are definitively not familiar, younger than any of his ex-colleagues. The two are probably beat cops on evening duty, enjoying a moment of calm respite. Or, well, loud respite. Damien used to like such moments too, but now it just seems obnoxious.

The waitress has to address the ex-cop twice before he realizes Kaden's done ordering and she's talking to him.

"Sorry," he shakes his head. Fatigue is catching up at last. Time to banish it. "Coffee and fresh pie sound great. I'll take a slice of cherry if you have that."

They do, and soon enough the men are seated at a solitary table, with Damien's back turned to the officers.

"Most of New York?" his eyebrow rises in bewilderment. He's heard of the Nakurra, of course. He did use to want to be part of the organized crime division. Which is why he's well aware there are more gangs (even if minor ones) than just the Black Dogs, Nakurra, and the High-Rise, "So, what? They've been allowed to run wild for... I don't even know how long? Are you telling me your people are the first sign of opposition?"

Damien's lighter has found its way into his hands, where he's absent-mindedly tracing over its engraving. There are still a few smokes left in the carton and he's having to suppress the urge to light one. Not because of Kaden. Because there's a no-smoking sign right over at the counter, and the waitress has been kind enough to cater to both the Black Dog's irregular order as well as to not make mention of Damien's face. What a shame. A cigarette would have gone great with the meal. He almost takes one out anyway, but then elects to ignore Finche's jab. "Weak" or not, the two are basically in the process of making a deal. They already did via Natalia.

The creamer falls to the ground at the same time Damien stabs at the cherry pie. It's good, not too sweet.

"Told you already, I want to find the ones that set me up. Issue is I don't know who they are," he thinks for a second before putting up two fingers, "But the parties responsible are these. One, whoever ordered the hit on my partner. And two, whoever carried out the job.

"Likely a third... You mentioned corruption. Michael and I suspected the High-Rise might be paying off police officials. It's the only explanation that makes sense, doubly so considering how much power they have accrued now," it's the reason why Natalia can't dig too deeply, though that part he leaves unspoken, "Unfortunately, I have the same issue there - don't know who to go after. If you do know members of their upper ranks or any hitmen they might regularly employ..."

Damien takes another bite of his food.

"So, you and Delilah, your boss, were in talks of taking action against the High-Rise. And a few days after said meeting, she just so happens to go missing..." Damien never finishes his sentence, leaving it to linger, his grey eyes searching Kaden's brown.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden's well acquainted with the seedy underbelly of the criminal underworld.
If he can look at specifics regarding Michael Kendall's murder than it's possible he can connect the hit to the man behind it.
But who ordered it on the other hand? That might be more difficult.

"Oh," he says quietly, popping open the snack size of cereal. Smell wise, it's difficult to determine the difference between flake and cardboard.

"You're implying someone put a hit on her? Based on what she and I said during the meeting?"
He frowns down at his cereal, a far greater glare than mere carbs deserve. Somehow, that had never occurred to him. The thought of Delilah being...dead seems impossible to comprehend.
Taken, not for leverage but killed to cripple the Black Dogs and get her out of the way to foul a preemptive attack.
But that was impossible.

"I assumed from lack of a body..."

And yet the attacker could have taken her and disposed of the body at a second location.
Despite sitting in a low stress environment, Kaden's heart starts beating. Echoing through his chest, slamming through his brain.

The policemen have had their fill, putting on their burly coats and leaving a sizable tip.
It's all just noise to Kaden. One stops at their table as they pass, doing a double take.

One's older, and much less easily entertained and leaves, mumbling about waiting in the car. The one that remains is remarkably younger. His eyes brim with enthusiasm and a smile spreads his lips into a grin.

"Hey- you're uh..." the kid clears his throat, resting his hands on the thick black belt around his waist. He squints at Damien, a tilt to his head like a golden retriever.
"This is gonna sound crazy, but I'm positive I know you."

He's in his mid twenties and yet still caught in that awkward man-boy phase Kaden was trapped in for centuries.
Although with the uniform you'd hardly be able to tell. The man stands with a strength and confidence that only a policeman has. He tried to catch Finch's eyes to smile out of some ridiculous attempt to be friendly. Kaden doesn't smile back. He stares through the boy, and then through Damien at the far wall behind him.

"You came to my school a long, long time ago, sir. Showed us your gun and your handcuffs, but you also showed me the difference just one guy could make on the force."

The kid takes off his thick police issued mitten to hold out his hand to be shaken.
"It was a small thing, but you inspired me to get off my ass, sir."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Maybe someone did put a hit on her, maybe they didn't. Can't be sure if there isn't a body," Damien says matter-of-factly, though his tone is subconsciously colored in the faintest notes of reassurance, the same way they teach how to deliver difficult news at the academy, "What I am implying is that your meeting might have been compromised. Doesn't the timing of her disappearance seem way too convenient, given what had been discussed?"

He doesn't get to hear an immediate answer as a pair of footsteps being to approach and Damien's forced to quiet down, bringing up his coffee to take a sip. He's relieved to see the two men in blue pass by to head for the exit. The diner's atmosphere will be much more relaxed without their presence, but if he's being honest that's not the reason behind his relief. It's the fact that neither has recognized him.

Turns out he'd been too rash to hope.

The mug almost falls from his grasp when one of the policemen pauses at his and Finch's booth, youthful eyes twinkling with remembrance. The ex-cop can't breathe, can't move as he stares back blankly. The mug threatens to fall yet again the longer the officer speaks.

"Oh," that's the only thing Damien finds himself capable of uttering in response. It takes him a second, but he carefully puts down the coffee and tentatively extends a hand forward, loosely grasping the policeman's own. A certain morbid curiosity passes through his mind - how would this man, this kid, feel if he knew he was shaking hands with a convicted felon?

Damien takes the first opportunity to let go.

"You'll have to excuse me, I don't remember-"

"Of course, it was a long time ago," despite his still-present smile, the young man deflates just a tiny bit as if he were expecting some other reaction. Not that it dampens his mood too much, "I went to Arthur Tappan School, class of 2013."

Right. Damien can vaguely recollect a police initiative he'd eagerly taken part in - he'd been eager about most things then - to visit the city's schools, particularly the more disenfranchised ones with the purpose of improving public opinion and showcasing their work. The participating police had been told if they could manage to make even a single change for the better in someone's life, that'd be enough. Damien's change is standing in front of him at this very moment, but he can't quite bring himself to feel proud.

"I remember now. Well, I'm humbled. You should be proud of yourself more than anything, though." Damien hopes his platitudes sound convincing enough.

"Thank you, sir."

They do.

"Listen, Officer-" the kid's posture straightens out even further, showing the tag hanging from his uniform, "Officer Conley. I would love to be able to chat, but, uh, I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Damien's eyes fleet over to Kaden then back to the policeman, in a not-at-all-subtle bid to get him to leave. The ex-cop's lips are pressed in a tight line, their corners slightly upturned in that awkward, apologetic kind of smile.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Never meet your heroes. That's what they say, isn't it?
From what Kaden can gather with his eyes frozen the encounter takes the stuffing out of both people.

But apparently not enough because the rookie rallies and finds the courage to stay, despite Damien's subtleties.
"Oh, sure. Sure," Conley says, nodding in understanding before proceeding to talk more. Kaden focuses on the wall behind Damien. There's some scuff marks. A  fly of all things is sat there, old and waiting to die.

It lives for a week eating shit and then it dies. That is if it isn't stepped on, swatted, or flushed down the toilet first. What kind of life is that? Why does it bother at all? No one particularly likes flies, and it can't particularly like eating feces.

Why does it hang on to the wall of a sub rated diner when the only productive thing it could do in it's short life is to die?
Although in their defense it's very likely a fly can't grasp nihilism as well as it grasps smooth surfaces and it's unfair to ask such questions in the first place.

The cereal grows puffier and soggier the longer it goes untouched.

Still, the fly had no choice in who or what it became because a fly is a fly and there must be some peace in knowing it did the best it could with what it had.

Kaden has all the choice and freewill in the world, theoretically, and he willingly eats shit everyday.
Finch has wasted his life. Poetry and philosophy regarding fly-hood would've fit him better than whatever this is supposed to be.

"It's just crazy to meet you, sir. Small world, and all. What precinct are you with? You must've made Sargeant by now, right?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien's smile hasn't wavered, though he can feel the muscles in his jaw tense in annoyance. He probably would have made seargent by now. As would have Michael. Funny how Natalia - the one to care least, if at all about climbing the career ladder, is the only one of the three to reach that rank.

This chance meeting needs to be over.

Damien didn't use to lie. As a child in his neighborhood, he was even notorious for being shit at keeping secrets, which is why no one ever told him anything. It is a skill he has had to learn, and after he understood its rules the man took to it like any other academic subject. Not that he enjoys it, but it has its uses. Still, if you're gonna lie, lie with purpose.

In this case, hiding the truth serves no function. If Conley remembers enough to recognize the ex-cop's face, he probably also remembers a name or a surname. It'd be easy enough to look him up from there...

"Not with the force anymore. I went to prison, kid," his voice is calm, spoken in a statement. Nothing more, nothing less. The reaction it causes the young policeman is instantaneous, and Damien can see the sudden sense of alienation in his features, "It was good to see you again. But your partner is waiting."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Telling the truth hurts the kid, but Kaden can see it hurts Damien worse.

Conley stands there awkwardly, but blessedly only few a seconds.
Before he leaves he looks like he wants to ask a question. Then anger contorts his features and he looks ten years older.
The boy turns away, sending more than one look over his shoulder at Damien before finally leaving for good.

The bell at the head of the door rings coldly through the restaurant.

Finch watches the window like it's a TV channel playing white noise. Conley's old partner stares through the window at them as they pull out.
The whole diner feels unreal. Kaden feels like he's not here at all. Or like he's watching himself from far away.

The creamer bursts and then oozes between Kaden's hand as he squeezes. Crushes.

The ringing in Finch's ears have finally subsided by the last droplet.
"Follow," he says, grabbing a napkin to dab his hand dry. He downs his cup of coffee, the liquid burning all the way, scalding his tongue.

"Hang on a minute, breakfast." The waitress steps out in front of him with the cheque. Kaden pulls out his wallet and by the face the woman makes, mouth open and eyes wide, the amount she gets is obscenely over the bill amount.

Kaden pushes past her. The diner's a blur and suddenly he's outside.
He's cold all over.

--- mental breakdown transition ---

His knuckles have gone white from the grip he has on the wheel.
The Mercedes weaves in and out of traffic, horns honking, tires skidding.
The lights of the city are a blur. It's pretty, in a way. Like Manhattan is a half dried painting that's been smeared with a hand.

"The Nakurra were the only ones who would've known about our attack. If a hit was ordered on Delilah, they're behind it."

A car whizzes by, horns blazing. A near miss.

If it was a hit, if the clan really tried to kill her than at worst she's wounded. Not dead. That's why she wasn't in her apartment. That's why it was such a mess. There was a struggle, but she got away.
She's not dead.

"If I have to choose between pursuing your case or my own, I'll be choosing my own, Damien."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

As soon as Conley's out of the door, both of Damien's hands are on his face, palms pressing into his eyes. The bright lights of the diner are all of a sudden too much to handle, and that looming headache from earlier threatens to come back, for real this time. He doesn't know exactly how the policeman feels after his "revelation", but some choice words come to mind - confused, disappointed, appalled.

Damien needs a smoke, badly.

He doesn't mind it when the command to follow comes from Kaden, more than ready to get out of this dump himself. He's so distracted by the thought of the chilly night waiting outside that he only notices the other man paying for the entire bill at the last moment. The transaction has been completed before he can protest - apparently, Finch is a very generous tipper, though that's a low bar as far as good impressions go. Damien makes a mental note to pay the Black Dog back as soon as possible, for the coffee and cherry pie left half-eaten at the table. Wouldn't want to stay indebted.

---

The ex-convict doesn't even get to light a single cigarette before he finds himself back in the Mercedes, holding onto the grab handle above the door for dear life.

Though his life isn't quite flashing before his eyes, the New York cityscape is at far too rapid of a pace. His gaze is glued to the road ahead as if he could somehow exert his will to gain control over the car. He doesn't trust Kaden, and that opinion doesn't change no matter how many times the consigliere deftly maneuvers through the traffic. He's the one putting the car on a dangerous course in the first place.

What the hell has gotten into him? Then he mentions Delilah.

"Too bad you don't get a choice," Damien says through gritted teeth, not out of anger, but because of the strain of the drive, "As long as you want Sergeant Montesano's cooperation, we work both cases. And I help you find your boss."

A near collision makes Damien's knuckles on the handle go white. He finally turns to look at Kaden.

"You're gonna get us killed if you don't slow down, Finch. Then we can't investigate either."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden's jaw clenches at Damien's words, at him leveraging his position. He can't deny he needs the man's resources, desperately, but that makes whatever's crawling under his skin scratch worse.

He's right.

It's a small voice of reason, but it's drowned in the raucous, chaotic insides of his head.
He needs to move, drive. Get away.
What was the last thing they said to one another? Did he even say goodbye?

"I gave everything for her! Everything!"

He slams a hand into the wheel. The pain echos up his arm.
The tires lose traction on the wet road, once, for a second. The back end fish tails, only for a moment.
He's back in control, he is. He can do this. He has to do this.

In the cup holder his phone buzzes. In a flash Kaden has it in hand.

The world melting by him, alone in a car with Damien is when he gets the worst text of his life.
And it is a text. Not a phone call, like it should be.
It's from Cade.

Bad news u might wanna sit for this

A handful of images pop up.

He's seen dead bodies before. Glassy, glazed eyes and pale lips. Piss between the legs and blood painting the floor beneath them.
He's seen them shot up, stabbed, electrocuted, starved, beat up, OD'd. Say it, he's seen it.

And yet...

He stares at his phone screen for some time trying to decipher what he's seeing. It's like when looking at an illusion and your brain keeps skittering on the reality of what it's seeing.
There's more texts, more words to frame in the pictures but he can't see them. They're just a meaningless blur.
If Damien's yelling at him, he can't hear.

She doesn't look like she's sleeping.

Her eyes are wide open, mouth too. Her body is contorted in a way that suggested she died painfully.
Her black hair falls in greasy strands over her face, chunks of dried vomit caking her lips.

He looks up in time to see the glare of a car bearing down on them.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Are you fucking deaf?!" Damien's shouting in a volume that feels unnatural for him, the raspiness at the back of his throat sounding almost painful, "I told you to slow down!"

His exclamations receive no response, no matter how loud he's being. Another near-hit comes into view. But unlike last time, Kaden isn't maneuvering out of the way. He isn't doing anything.

The incoming headlights are blinding as a car horn pierces the air. Time seems to slow down.

Damien's body moves on instinct, reaching over Kaden to grab at the wheel, at the other man's hand still on it. In one sharp movement, he puts all his strength behind turning the wheel, setting the car out of the direct collision path... into spinning out of control.

The convict made peace with death some time ago, in prison, when he decided to hunt down the people that killed his best friend. It's an inevitability that eventually catches up to everyone, and if it happens to greet him along the road of his investigation, then so be it. As long as he gets what he wants.

This isn't it. Dying like this would be the pathetic cherry on top of a very pathetic life.

Time resumes. Damien can hear himself screaming again, though he can't quite discern what he's saying. He can't hear if anything is coming from Finch either.

The car has almost done a 90-degree turn, sliding along the slick pavement. The ex-cop has to jam his leg uncomfortably over to the driver-side and push down onto the brakes, their mechanism's resistance now fighting against the vehicle's inertia as it drifts. The tires are screeching underneath, smoke rising out of them from the friction. The car is slowing down, though it hasn't stopped just yet.

It continues its turn until it has nowhere left to go - the curb puts a stop to the Mercedes once its rear impacts. Finally, it's over.

Damien can't move right away, breathing heavily and shaking as he keeps clinging onto the wheel like it's a matter of life or death. Moments ago, it was. What a horrible evening. And in his eyes, there is one person responsible. His head whips around to glare daggers at the Black Dog.

Whatever he was gearing up to say dies on his lips as he chances a peek at Finch's phone. Most things inside the car got thrown around, but this has remained secure, tight in the other man's grasp. The ex-cop only gets a brief look, but it's enough for him to discern what the photos are of based on Kaden's reaction - a corpse. Familiar images flash through his mind.

"Is that-" his mouth opens and closes several times, not managing to come up with much, "I... I'm sorry."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The world stops spinning, but Kaden's head doesn't.
He can't breathe. Every breath just isn't enough.

He notices the warmth of Damien's hand over his own. Shaking, he pulls away, swallowing the bile in his throat.
He doesn't know how long he sits there for. Time feels like stretchy taffy, just oozing past his ears. He hears car horns like their miles away.
It snaps back.

He cracks the door open, kicking it and fighting with his seatbelt.
Whatever little he ingested at the diner sprays the pavement.

The phone creaks in his hand. Somehow it's twenty pounds in his palm. The screen has long since dimmed and gone black, but Kaden knows what it'll open up on.
The ringing is back in his ears, his heartbeat too. The sound of his own blood roaring in his ears.

He spits, wiping his chin and watching the coffee and stomach acid soak into the snow.
There's a cigarette butt or two joining the mess. Why does everyone in the world smoke?

She didn't smoke. Just for him, she didn't.

"I can't..." He says, resting his head against the chassis of the Mercedes.
"Can you drive?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien rushes to get his seatbelt off after Kaden spills out of the car. His legs are shaking, adrenalin still coursing through his system, but he fights for control over his limbs, following one unsteady footstep at a time.

The Mercedes took a hit, its rear bumper now sporting a dent, though it's nothing too severe as far as Damien can tell. The hazard lights are on, blinking every couple of seconds.

The same goes for the other car in the near-collision, a ways away in the distance where its driver, fortunately, managed to emergency break. He is also stumbling as he exits the vehicle, crumpling onto the ground.

Damien finally gets to Finch.

"Shit," he mumbles, ignoring the puddle of fresh vomit as he kneels down. He stops himself from asking if the other man is okay at the last moment. He obviously isn't.

"Yes, just gotta tell me where to," the ex-convict hasn't sat behind the wheel in 15 years, but he's going to have to now. The figure down the road has gotten up from his position, and Damien can see him begin to slowly approach in a stumble, shouting something. His eyes are back on Kaden, arm extended if he needs help, "Let's get you back in the car."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden looks up at Damien's offered hand up. His own fingers itch.
He's been taller than this man the entire evening, their entire life really.
Seeing him at this angle, with that face...
He looks different.
Finch wants to take his hand.

The shouting he hasn't registered until now makes him jolt.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?!" The man roars and Kaden looks wide eyed, stumbling for purchase on the car to pull himself up.
He misses his pile of refuse, but just barely and lands himself butt first in a pile of snow instead. It's remarkably not an improvement.

The other driver is an older man, grey hair, but he's built like an oxe and twice as angry as one. But it's his voice. That's the worst part. His voice is like thunder.
Kaden's trapped against his own car and this man and he feels small and alone.

Like a fly in a rundown diner.

"Look what you did to my car, you lil' twerp. I outta bust your head in!"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

It says a lot that this other man hasn't dialed for help. Neither has he asked for insurance information and, of course, he hasn't even thought to check how the passengers of the Mercedes are doing, if they are safe, even though one of them is currently on the ground. No, instead his first instinct is to threaten to start busting heads in. This man is angry and looking for a fight.

Something Damien isn't too keen to give him.

"There's no need for that, sir," the ex-cop roots himself between the burly driver and Kaden, arms up in a placating manner.

"And who do you think you are, brat? Unless you wanna get beat up too, stay the fuck out of this."

"I apologize for what happened," he doesn't move, voice calm and measured, "My friend has a condition and it caused him to briefly fall asleep at the wheel."

The guy's furious expression doesn't change much at that statement, his empathy not particularly tickled. He takes several more steps forward, now standing right in Damien's personal space, towering over him.

"You think I give a shit?! Look at what he did to my car!" he reiterates, spittle flying out of his mouth as he screams in Damien's face, somehow even more riled up than before.

The ex-cop feels his jaw clench. He doesn't have the patience for this, not at the end of this evening. He peers around at the vehicle in the distance, "As far as I can tell, not much."

That was definitively the wrong thing to say. Once more he feels hands grab at the front of his coat, pushing him roughly back against the car's frame. It's becoming annoying getting shoved around all willy-nilly.

"What did you just say?"

The gun's weight at Damien's hip is back, progressively getting harder to ignore.