[Rinse]

OOC: Listen, this is so self-indulgent and I apologize beforehand. If I need to make any tweaks just lemme know.

-----

(CW: Violence, homicide, language)

Dane turned and pretended to be intently fixated upon his reflection in the dirty storefront window. He scratched a fingernail absently at the collar of his jacket as if to remove some invisible remnant of his lunch, tilting his chin while his gaze wandered sidelong; studying the man across the street inconspicuously. The man — well over six foot and notably built — had been poking around the abandoned building in a manner Dane assumed was supposed to be discreet.... but blatantly wasn't. With his fidgety eyes, the way he tugged down his hat and wiped sweaty hands on his jeans... if he was a cop or a detective, he wasn't a seasoned one.

Dane was meant to meet another trio of supposed Guild members at the same warehouse fifteen minutes earlier and he was going to be both horrendously upset and admittedly amused if a bust took place right before his eyes. Tickled to be just another innocent bystander among the sea of curious, gathered onlookers who would no doubt amass but positively annoyed that he'd miss the pick-up. His father would undoubtedly assume the raid was somehow his fault and the resulting reprimand would be merciless.

The pick-up, Antonio said, was incriminating evidence that Jacek had amassed and that'd been confiscated from his dead body. Loose ends that Dane was responsible for since he'd failed to capture the man months ago. He was a little saddened that Jacek had turned up face-down in a ditch, two towns away, with his ugly face busted to a pulp by someone else's fists. It was comforting to know that the little weasel's passing hadn't been an easy one but he'd have liked to personally pay him back for the seventeen stitches in his calf. Oh well, no matter.

The nark finally turned and moved on past the warehouse and Dane snapped his fingers to beckon Snowcone from where she was chewing on a rat carcass in the alleyway closest to him. Her ears perked, she trotted eagerly to his side, and the pair crossed the street and into a narrow alleyway on the side of the building. Dane paused and turned to crouch in front of his summon, slapping a palm against the bulk of her shoulder. "Snow, sit. Sit. Stay." She gave a plaintive whine, tongue smacking at her lips as she shimmied closer to him, tossing her nose beneath his chin. He laughed, steadying her with a sturdy rub of his fingers through the fur of her neck. "You come to me if you see anyone, alright?" Another soft whine. "Good girl." He stood and drew his fingers fondly down her nose before turning and making his way further down the alley to an open side door.

"You boys got a pup sniffin' around," Dane announced himself as he pushed through a number of long-unused doors and through the thick veils of plastic that had, at one time, served to keep the atmosphere in the once-thriving meat-packaging establishment. "Probably need to be a bit more subtle." He grinned as he shoved his hands back in his pockets and set a wide stance before the two gentlemen in front of him; gaze perusing their forms — looking for obvious weapons — before drifting to the crate between them. It was empty. He could see quite clearly that it was empty but his smile remained fixed.

The men turned to face him and Dane's gut twinged as he lifted his eyes to their nasty, sneering mugs. He couldn't tell if they were two of his father's goons or not — most of Antonio's men looked at him with similar, unimpressed distaste. One of them, the uglier of the two, cracked a crooked, rotted smile. "Don' thin' we'll be takin' subtlety lessons from Dane Wayland, ya?" Dane's small, mockingly-cheerful grin fell infinitesimally at the corners. "Ya, ya 'lil arrogant cunt." His eyelids fell a little more over his dark, emptying gaze and he huffed a small, disappointed sigh. Definitely not his father's men. It was something his father's men would say, certainly, but the delivery.... the hygiene... Antonio wouldn't allow it.

"Well, not that this isn't immensely pleasant. But the sooner I get what Antonio wants, the sooner I'm free from your stench and lacking hospitality. That is," Dane beckoned lazily toward the empty crate. "If you have something at all?" The men settled more comfortably into their slightly-challenging stances and one tucked his chin to his chest while the other took his jaw in hand with a sizing grimace. Expressions Dane knew meant that the actual intention here wasn't to hand him any blackmail. Maybe they were Antonio's men after all, given the routine task to rough him up for his mounting failures in the past couple of months. Kill him, maybe? Dane had been doing all he could to piss the old man off.

"S'not empty, Wayland. Papers. Look yerself."

Lips pursing, Dane gave a small hum and moved forward with no inclination of being at all wary or cautious. As he got closer and the pair moved slightly aside to accommodate him, his gaze dropped to the folder at the bottom of the crate. He quirked a brow and, with a sidelong glance at both of the men, knelt to pluck it out.

He saw the kick in his periphery — half-expected it — but he still didn't get an arm up in time. The foot connected with his jaw with a crack that sent him flying back upon his ass. Miraculously, he gathered his wits in time to kick a foot into the knee of the other man who attempted to settle atop him and get him pinned (no doubt to wail on his face until he was broken and bleeding). Just as he scrambled to his feet, the uglier one slammed into him; knocking him against a rusted countertop stacked with old, rotted boxes that his flung arms sent crashing to the floor. A burly fist curled in his shirt and tugged him forward before another connected with his face. Dane gasped for breath as he reeled from the contact. His fingers worked a blade from his belt and, as the man reared back for another blow and Dane felt warmth drip from his nose, he flipped the knife in his palm.

Just as the man's face steeled with intent and the fist began to fall, Dane grit his jaw and shoved the blade between his ribs; lip curling over his teeth with satisfaction at the choked sound it earned from a suddenly-slackened mouth. He dug the blade in further, twisting and ripping, and felt the guy's strength — the fingers curled in his shit — slowly ebb. He shoved him back, ripping the knife free as the man stumbled back and toppled. He gave his writhing body a swift kick while he groaned, cursed, and tried keeping the pooling crimson inside his gut with trembling, scarlet-slicked fingers. "Are you with my father?" Dane asked coolly while he wiped his jacket sleeve beneath his dripping nose and swallowed a coppery mouthful of blood. A pained groan was his only response and Dane nudged the toe of his shoe into the man's bleeding side while he scanned the warehouse for his missing partner.

"Ya fuck— fuck'n nasty prick, you've killed me. You've fuck'n— nrrgh, you've—" the guy gasped venomously and Dane's gaze flickered down. Turning the blade in his palm, he dropped swiftly to a crouch and buried the point in the man's chest; blinking slow as the guy lifted to brace the knife with a single, shuddering exhale.

At an angered outcry, he lifted his gaze from the man's fading eyes and tugged the knife free. The other man — looking positively livid and wielding a thick, intimidating pipe — charged at him from across the room and Dane stood slowly to apprehend him. The brute reared back to strike him but, before Dane could leap away, his gaze pulled to an advancing figure bolting at the man's back. Snowcone launched herself forward with a terrifying snarl and fastened her teeth into the man's forearm. Dane laughed aloud at the man's surprised screech of fury. She took him down easily and the man's anger turned to pain as she shook her massive maw side to side, releasing him only to snap her jaws somewhere else.

"Atta girl!" Dane called encouragingly, wiping his blade on his jeans and swiping again at his seeping nose. Turning his back on the pair, he made his way back to the crate and knelt before it. He opened the folder and leafed his tongue across the back of his teeth when he found the papers inside to be unsurprisingly blank. He 'tsk'ed with annoyance and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, taking a long, unconcerned moment to send his father a message: 'No evidence, it was a shoddy set-up.' His fingers curled and he shot off another. 'Maybe send better guys next time, pops. <3'

The remaining man's cries were quieting now and Dane stood, pocketed his phone, and approached him. He didn't glance over his summon's gruesome work but, instead, studied the guy's ugly, twisted face. Tried to place it among his father's men. "Wasn't there supposed to be three of you?" He inquired lightly before kneeling to slip a hand in the man's pockets, searching for identification, money, or anything. But the only thing he turned up was an unimpressive knife and a bag of candy. He buried the knife in the guy's stomach — not caring enough to question him. Snowcone pressed the tip of her bloodied muzzle into his thigh and Dane dropped a hand to pat at her head. "Alright, let's clean up this mess and get outta here."


Michael Vael

[Phoebe Krehl]

Snowcone's attention snapped away, bloodied maw clicking shut and ears perking as her head lifted and swiveled; abruptly and acutely intent like the ever-vigilant beast she was. Dane's gaze followed the point of her snout with a distinct lack of urgency, feeling his eyes steel and his fingers tighten around the blade still in his hand. He half-expected to see the mysteriously-missing "third" Guild member or the spring-chicken "cop" that'd been poking about (if they weren't, in fact, the same person), but his eye fell on a woman instead, positioned in the same doorway he'd entered through earlier. Framed by dingy sheets of plastic and suspended in shock.

She was beautiful.

Beautiful, not because she was a pretty, dark-haired woman in a nice, black dress, but beautiful because she was so visibly and palpably afraid. The obvious rigidity of her stance. The tension in her stillness. The tears slipping freely down her cheeks. The difficult bob to her throat that followed a swallowed, choked-back noise he could only presume was going to be some sort of wavering bleat. And the way her lips parted around words that shock kept from forming, from finding voice. Dane drank it all in, his eyes widening infinitesimally and his own lips parting to allow an appreciative inhale. It was an immediate high — a wonderful push of pleasure through his veins to follow the thundering adrenaline of violence.

Fear was always so intoxicating to see, most especially when he was the root of its cause. Perhaps it was because he himself had never truly felt it and could only imagine its paralyzing grip. Could only guess what its icy touch felt like as it ghosted down one's spine and plunged them into waters so terribly cold. Abhorrence and revulsion were close contenders — he loved being regarded darkly or spitefully as someone looked upon him and his atrocities — but they still couldn't hold a candle to fear. Loathing was too common. Disgust, too easy to invoke. Fear was much more intimate. Far more special.

Remorsefully, Dane only allowed himself a quick moment to revel in it. This was a problem after all. He had two dead men on his hands and a scene to clean up already. Adding another (presumably quite innocent) woman — whom he imagined was worlds more decent than the two, ugly brutes at his feet and might actually be missed — to the bodies wasn't horribly appealing. It would just serve as fodder for Antonio to use against him. Which was... particularly annoying since, at present, Dane saw this whole situation as a great opportunity to question his father. Wonder pointedly where he got his intel and why he'd sent Dane hastily and alone, chasing bad leads. Killing some girl unfortunate enough to stumble upon him would just be an excuse to turn the whole thing back on him. Make it his fault. Stress the whole thing as some "exceedingly barbarous, short-sighted misstep" that Dane was already well-known for.

He angled to face the woman squarely, slowly lifting his hands in the air beside him, palms out as if he'd been caught out doing something particularly bad and expected a reprimand. He splayed his fingers and let a warm, mollifying smile curl at his mouth, consciously keeping his lips pressed together like an animal not yet resigned to baring its teeth. Tried to appear nonthreatening and friendly; the mocking insincerity of it marked by the nonchalant (and purposeful) way he wiggled his fingers, hoping to draw her attention to the scarlet slicking his hands and the blade held against his palm by only a thumb, waving about like a trifling toy. Perhaps belaying that he wasn't genuinely trying to put her at ease.

He clucked his tongue twice and Snowcone, still poised and alert beside him, lurched forward with a low-throated, acknowledging whiffle. She bounded toward the woman, shoving from the floor on massive paws and moving in a determined sprint that was surprisingly fluid for a beast of her lumbering size. Dane simply let her, his heart pounding a bit harder in his chest as he coolly (hungrily) watched the woman's face for a reaction. But before Snowcone could get close enough to bunch the muscles in her haunches and prepare to leap, he lifted his voice in a firm, fierce command. "Aap aap! Gentle! Be nice!"

The dog's step faltered, gait falling a moment later into something controlled and heavy as she dropped her body low and slunk closer, posture still vaguely threatening as she skirted to the side, giving the woman a small berth and looking very much like a dog trained to shepherd. Prepared to cut her off if she tried to run and herd her back to him. Dane's smile returned and he stepped after her, adopting an unhurried stride of his own and keeping his hands before him. "No need to be hasty, right? We can be nice?"

He swallowed the last bit of distance quickly, face slipping into something a little more honest as he closed his fingers around a thin wrist and yanked her fully into the room. He pulled her uncomfortably close, shushing and tutting softly as he gave her a quick, necessary glance-over, seeking visible tattoos (one could never be too careful). When he found none, he allowed his eyes to soften and linger more indulgently. Took a moment to watch the tears skip from her jaw, admire the tremble to her parted lips, and blink fondly at the widened terror in her eyes. She looked fragile. Like a delicate doll. Breakable. With pale skin that'd make blood look very dark and pretty.

He chuckled. No need to be hasty, he reminded himself. He should at least learn who she was first. Give her the chance to tell him she wasn't alone. Convince him with all those typical, thoughtless lies that she was "meeting someone" or "someone was waiting for her". Shock had silenced her for now but he knew she'd find her voice; terror would loosen its grip only for desperation to clutch in its place and then the words would finally form. They'd tumble out of her in an increasingly-incoherent torrent, made sharp by desperation and pleading as she said whatever she could to keep herself alive. To change his mind. It was always so amusing.

"Hey now, why are you scared? Don't be scared." He breathed the words toyingly, with enough unsettling soothe to make them almost a promising purr. His fingers tightened only a fraction around her wrist and he tipped her chin toward him with a knuckle, smiling in a way that was — by design — supposed to be reassuring, but decidedly wasn't. "Don't you worry. These things happen. We are gonna. Figure. This. Out."

He cast his gaze about the room, looking for a solution. The warehouse was mostly bare, everything left behind obvious trash, large structures too bothersome to remove, or evidence of squatting. But tucked behind the boxes he'd knocked over earlier, he could see the metal leg of an upturned chair — some flimsy, ridiculous thing that'd seen better days. He stepped toward it, pulling the woman unkindly with him; steadying her stumbling, stilted step with each tug.

With his fingers still circled about her wrist, Dane knelt to right the chair and dragged it toward the middle of the room. He shoved it beside a small table — a rough, wooden thing he could only picture aforementioned squatters rescuing from the garbage and hauling in — and then forced her into the seat with his hands on her shoulders. He gave a "comforting" squeeze and then drew away, not yet concerned enough to bother finding something to bind her hands or feet with — especially with the faint tic-tac of Snowcone's nails on the linoleum as she sniffed about the corners of the room. He couldn't imagine that the woman entertained any delusions she would be able to disable them both. Besides, a little bit of trust went a long way sometimes.

As if to further inspire a bit of trust, Dane turned away and drove his knife, point down, into the table, freeing his hands. He studied her subtly from his periphery — first in greedy anticipation of a delightful flinch and then, second, watching for her eye to draw toward it. He imagined her imagining taking a stab at changing their tune. Growing bold or scared enough to grab the knife and gamble. To fight for her life in whatever laughable way she thought was possible. She'd look so cute wrenching the weapon free, clasping it in trembling hands, and pointing it at him as if it could save her. He doubted she had the capacity — what a little mess she was — but it was a delighting image. It would make him giggle. It'd be so silly and he'd be so proud of her.

He stepped sidelong, giving the blade a bit of breathing room — perhaps, in some subtle way, inviting her to try — and crouched before her, not directly but a bit off to the side, fingers clasped together in front of him. "Good, there we go. Nice and quiet, no fuss. I wouldn't wanna have to tie you up and dangle you from a butcher hook like some cliche movie." He chuckled, the tones warm and friendly as if it were just any other joke. His eye pulled to the purse hooked by her arm. "Now. Will you hand me your bag?"

It was a thin veneer of courtesy; a request that wasn't really a request. He'd take it from her if she refused, but he imagined giving her a chance to hand it over herself — to think, to comply, to force voluntary movement through her locked limbs — would do her some good. "What's your name?"

-------


Michael Vael
OOC: If Eve isn't carrying any sort of bag/purse at this time just lemme know and I can edit that last bit out. If she is, and Dane gets into it, would it be alright/plausible for him to find her Moondweller's Cauldron cards? Go through her phone/contacts/messages/pictures? Totally okay if you don't want that lmao. Otherwise, just give me a nudge if you want any other tweaks! I know this was a lot, so if I moved her too much, feel free to give me a holler.