[Dane Wayland]

(CW: Lots of cursing I guess, some violence)

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Dane laughed and the sound of it filled the corridor more than the heavy falls of their feet or their labored breathing. He was gaining on the man sprinting before him, and as he whipped his head back to look at him, Dane grinned wolfishly when their eyes met and he watched the realization widen there. "Run, Jacek! Faster!" The guild member cried out gleefully, before ripping a decorative plaque from an apartment's door and throwing it. Jacek stumbled with a clipped cry when the wooden sign struck him at the back of the skull, and it was enough of a trip for Dane to close in on him.

He'd been chasing Jacek through the apartment complex for what felt like an hour at least; the slippery man — made completely feral by his desperation to stay alive — managing to keep just out reach as he cut corners, leaped down stairwells, and sent whatever he could crashing behind him to stall the pursuing hunter. He'd even buried a knife in Snowcone's side when Dane and the summoned dog had first burst into his apartment. But now, as Dane curled his fingers in the guy's shirt and yanked him to the floor, it was worth every bead of sweat; especially when Jacek flipped around and Dane saw the raw fear, wide and open in his features. His mouth flopped open around a breathless plea, right before Dane smashed a fist to his face.

"Ha!" He shouted, reveling in the crack of bone beneath his knuckles, before pulling the guy forward to strike him again. But Jacek saw his opening and kicked out; foot connecting solidly with Dane's shin and sending the hunter toppling forward. Dane tried to get a grip on him, but the man squirreled his way out and back to his feet before Dane could get him pinned. "You fucking son of a bitch," he pushed forward and elbowed Jacek back before he could break into another sprint; ignoring the pain in his leg as the pair broke through a cheap apartment door. A woman screamed, but Dane paid her no mind; only shouting another slew of curses as Jacek smashed something over his head and wriggled free again. When Dane found his bearings, he leaped after the other man through the messy, crowded apartment; hopping over all the shit Jacek had thrown in his path. He was already at the apartment's window with a chair in hand, that he sent through the glass before stealing onto the fire escape and dropping down the stairs.

The fucking weasel. No wonder the guy had managed to hide out from him for so long.

Dane leaped through the shattered window after him. "Fucking shit!" He shouted angrily as a piece of broken glass at the bottom of the frame sliced through his pants and into his skin. The pain was deep and hot, but Dane didn't dare look down as he forced himself forward and continued after the man dropping from landing to landing. Distantly, he was aware of the sirens growing louder on the air, and he grit his jaw painfully as he looked down at Jacek. The distance between them had multiplied, and this was quickly going from fun to shit.

And just as the thought ran through his mind, Dane's bloodied hands slipped from the ladder, and there was a slow, stretching moment as he fell backward; reaching and clutching at nothing, before he simply fell. It wasn't a long fall, but when he struck the ground, it felt as if it could have been stories.

"Agghh fuck," Dane groaned breathlessly, arching his back off the cement in a painful writhe. The sirens paraded closer, and as he squirmed there and tried working air back into his emptied lungs, the hunter managed to roll on his stomach and crawl away from center of the alleyway and out of sight. Propping himself against a dumpster, he craned his neck back just in time to see the other man's head disappear from where he was leaning over a balcony's railing. "Jacek, you piece of shit!" He called out, when he caught his breath enough to spit the words out. "I'll find you again!"

A sound from one end of the alleyway snapped the hunter's attention away, and his lip twitched as he ducked low and limped to the apartment building adjacent to the one he'd just fallen from. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," he tried the first door and uttered another clipped curse when it didn't budge. Dane moved to the next, and then the next. As he progressed in a quick, crooked limp down the corridor, the words that slipped from his mouth grew sharper with each resistance he met. Blood seeped hot down his leg and into his shoe and every step he took jabbed fingers of flame deep into the nasty laceration across his calf. At the very end of the hall — facing the punishing prospect of a daunting stairwell — Dane felt a sheen of sweat break cold across his face. And as his hand fell to the cool metal of the final door's handle, and his gaze settled upon the tiny, surreal Hello Kitty sticker some child had stuck, crooked, to the white wood, his lip curled with growing distaste. "Come on, please please, you yellow-nosed, pink-dress wearing bitch."

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Tag: Open. Feel free to find him stuffed under a stairwell or something, have him shove into your apartment, even godmid a little, idc. I'll work with it. x)

[Noah St Cloud]

It was a good ol’ fashioned stakeout.

…Sort of.

There were similar elements (the waiting, the surveillance of someone’s activity, the monitoring for criminal behaviour) but Noah wasn't a cop. He had no legal permission to do the things he did, and usually stakeouts started and ended outside the place of interest whereas he intended to break in.

The apartment belonged to forty-two-year-old Leslie Donovan. Noah had crossed paths with her in a Downtown convenience store, picking up a drink after a run. Although in all appearances an ordinary woman, something about her had struck him as odd. Raised the hairs on his neck. So he’d done some digging, some stalking, and he’d found her address, a cluttered employment history, and a glaring lack of familial relations. The vibes were off – which usually meant someone was gifted or a murderer – and investigating her gave him something to do, something to think about so he could ignore The Tawny Incident. (It had only been five days, but he was starting to think he’d never get his clothes back).

Anyway, as far as he could tell, Leslie worked the same six hour shift every weekday.

He stood on the floor level above her apartment, hanging out in the corridor like he was meant to be there. He was able to watch from a dirt speckled window as she walked away down the street, glancing over her shoulder with a frown as if she heard something troubling. He heard it too; someone yelling. She continued on and the shouts were muffled, made unintelligible by the walls of the building, so Noah thought nothing of it as he pulled on the disposable gloves he’d brought with him. But then there was sound below him; door handles rattling, uneven footsteps, sharp curses. He paused. There were sirens approaching, too.

A crease appeared between his brows. Running into the police would... not be ideal. He strolled along the corridor to the stairwell, where he glanced down and immediately spotted a man languishing outside the exact apartment Noah planned to break into. He was injured, that much was clear. Even if he hadn’t been cursing and leaning more heavily on one leg than the other, Noah would have zoned in on those blood drips like a shark.

It would have been easy to brush past him and walk straight out the building, perhaps with a cheery wave and a ‘good luck’ as he did so. But hearing him cuss out a Hello Kitty sticker, Noah couldn’t stop the slow grin that creeped across his lips. He leant on the stair railing and took a moment to consider his options. If the building became a crime scene, if the stranger was arrested there and Leslie's landlord installed locks on the main entrance, Noah might not get another chance to snoop through her stuff.

“Hey there,” he greeted. Casual, as if they had mutually approached each other at a mixer. He didn’t have to speak very loudly; despite the sirens outside and the man’s grumbling and panting, the stairwell was relatively quiet. Noah cocked his head to the side, eyes bright and interested. “Are you having a rough day, sweetheart?”

Perhaps he should have done more to put the stranger at ease; fussed over him, done the whole ‘Gasp! Oh my gosh, are you alright?’ routine. But Noah figured there was no need for such formalities if he was preparing to reveal his less than innocent side anyway. He descended the stairs leisurely, looking the stranger up and down. He was around the same height as Noah, his face a little softer and understandably sweaty. His dark hair was a familiar sight, one that Noah often saw in the mirror. He recognised the way product was desperately trying to keep the hair styled, still clinging to some strands even after vigorous activity had caused the majority to fall into disarray.

Physically, he didn’t look too strong. The wound in his calf wasn’t helping. Noah wondered if he had looked like that when he turned up on Esha's doorstep all those months ago. Had the universe had purposefully led him there? Giving him the opportunity to pay forward her generosity?

Once he reached the bottom step he held up his glove-covered hands and gave a ‘don’t-mind-little-old-me’ smile. “Back off from the door, would you? Let me get my keys.” He dipped his hand into his pocket to withdraw a lockpick and showed it off, wiggling it in the air before he moved to the door. As much as he loathed to turn his back on someone who was clearly bad news, likely to have just gotten out of some sort of fight, he reckoned with a wound like that the guy wouldn’t be the epitome of stealth and strength. He eased into a crouch and slid the pick inside the keyhole, using it to carefully feel for the pins inside. He found the binding pin – the one that offered the most pressure – and lifted it bit by bit until he heard it set in place.

He glanced back at the stranger and narrowed his eyes at the blood on his leg, dripping onto the floor. Had he left an obvious trail through the street? How soon would the police find it and track him to their building? At least they were on the first floor; Noah was confident he could duck out a window and make a run for it if the police figured out what apartment they were in. “Could you put a smear of that on the stairs or something? Make it look like you went up? I’d rather not have the cops bashing the door down mid-sewing class. That would be a bummer for us both, I think.”

He turned his attention back to the door, repeating the process (find pin with most pressure, push it up, find next pin with most pressure, push it up) until finally he could swing the door open. That was too easy, too quick – what a crappy place to live. Terrible security. There were no cameras anyway either, not inside or out.

He stood with a satisfied sigh and sauntered through the doorway, finding the home as empty as he’d predicted. It was a small apartment. Bare. A rectangle box with a living area to the left and a tiny kitchen to the right. The room’s only window was positioned above the sink and on the far wall were a couple of doors which Noah assumed would lead to a bathroom and a bedroom. “Let’s see if this nice lady has a first aid kit, shall we?” He turned to his new companion, raising his brow. “You want help getting to the couch? You can lean on me if you want, I don’t bite.” Otherwise Noah was more than happy to start rifling through cupboards and snooping around behind those closed doors.


Dane Wayland
((OOC: Likewise, feel free to make Noah move around a bit :3)) 

[Dane Wayland]

Dane was hardly surprised when the Hello Kitty door, like all the others, refused to open. For one, nothing in the universe ever worked in his favor, especially when he begged, and two, anybody living in such a shitty apartment complex in such a shitty neighborhood would lock their fucking doors. He offered the cutesy sticker a dangerous scowl, pulling his lips tight against his teeth as he grit his jaw. But before he could grapple with his options — chance the stairs and further trap himself by moving up or abandon the complex entirely and try his luck through the alley — a voice reached out to him from the second-floor landing. Dane's attention snapped to the figure at the top of the stairwell, gaze immediately narrowed with annoyance.

But as he watched the man descend, too casual to be right, his brain worked over his unconcerned tone and blithe choice of words. With the sirens blaring outside the complex and Dane looking as he did, any normal person would have seen him and immediately turned to walk the other way. Or perhaps shuffled past with nimble urgency. This guy was going to let him into his apartment? Move aside Mr. Bloody Intruder, so I can unlock the door for you before the cops come to drag you away.

As the man approached, eyes appraising, Dane returned the courtesy openly, gaze lingering upon the gloves pulled over his hands. When he fished a lockpick from his pocket and waved it in the air between them, lips curled in a cat-like smile, Dane's brow smoothed. "Who the fuck are you?" He took a step back as the man crouched before the door and began working against the lock.

Was he a guild member? It was always an uneducated guess at how many of them were in any given city. Information Dane was the least likely to be privy to. He almost always preferred working alone. Which suited any prospective partner as much as it did him. He'd done so for the majority of six years, and with the blunt disfavor he'd earned from his father in that time, a partner only meant he'd have to count an enemy at both his back and front. Typically Antonio made it a point to never assign Dane a partner though, which he of course didn't mind — his father's men and women were all piss-poor fucks, bloated with the same snooty, serpentine importance that Antonio had tried drilling into his sons when he'd still thought well of them. But he knew Antonio sent him alone, not as a vouch for his only "living" son's abilities, but as a hardly-veiled hope that someone would manage to finally kill him. Hoping some nobody would pick him off in such a way, that when he broke the news to his wife about their remaining son's bloody death, he could say so without Mona accusing his hand in the foulplay.

The man's voice brought him back from his temporary lapse into thought and Dane glanced down at the blood oozing from his shoe with a frown. "Sure thing, darling," his lips spread into a tight, toothy grin, though his eyes remained hard and flinty and his tone was too steely and taut to be convincingly chipper, not sure how much confidence to put in his new acquaintance. "You just worry about the door. Won't matter if the cops find us out here, will it?"

He stepped away from the man, putting his back to him, and knelt to assess his wound. It was a nasty laceration, not quite bone-deep, but without even looking, he could tell there'd be a bit of muscle to prod back in place. No big deal. He would just need something, anything, to tie himself closed. Quick and crude would work, if it kept enough blood in his body to either wait the party out or to make it a few streets away. Limp his way to the nearest safehouse and be healed up as good as new. If the gifted individual tasked with keeping him healthy was in a good mood, at least. Dane rubbed his palms together, gaze flitting sidelong for only a brief moment as he considered the man at his back, before he shrugged and began a quick summoning.

There was a swirl of heat as he drew his palms apart, swathes of sinew, muscle, and fur forming hastily around cracking, morphing bone. The small rat squeaked to life, chittering up at him with beady, intent eyes. It wasn't his most refined work — the rodent was a bit wonky; proportions a bit jarring, the spacing of its features a bit crude — but it would serve its purpose. It was practicality over artistry this time. He scritched a finger beneath the creature's throat before slipping off his shoe. Wasting no time, created from nothing with a single-minded purpose, the rat snatched the shoe and lopped away, skittering up the stairs with stilted hops due to its uneven legs and dripping blood from the shoe as it went.

Dane rose slowly and turned back, just as the other man did the same — door clicking open before them. Dane spared a quick moment to bring his hands together in a tiny congratulatory clap, scrunching up his shoulders close to his neck with mock glee. "Ah hah! Well done. I never once doubted you." He followed him into the apartment and shut the door behind them, locking it once more and spinning to regard the other man and the apartment that — obviously — was not his. No immediate sign of any other tenant. A cursory glance around found the place unimpressive, curiously bare, and his head lolled to the side with a grimace. "Oh, of course, beige carpet. Poor fella won't be getting his deposit back after me."

He again appraised the man before him. He obviously had no qualms with breaking into apartments, had been prepared to do so, but something about him warned Dane that he was no typical cat burglar. That he was in predatory company. Perhaps it was the complete lack of concern with which he regarded him; a cool, calm confidence that spoke of an absence of fear or worry. When he raised his brow and offered to help him to the couch, Dane dropped his shoulders and twisted his mouth into a smile sickly sweet and sardonic. Even though his instincts told him to step carefully, feel the other man out before ruffling feathers, he just couldn't be fucked. "Yes please, and can you get me a glass of water and kiss my forehead, too? Like you said, it's been a rough day."

He moved past him, keeping the wince from his features with each step and letting the grin fall into something more contained as he lifted a hand to pat at the man's shoulder. "Thanks, but I think I can manage." He moved through the apartment, gritting his jaw against the bladed feel of each warm pulse oozing from his leg. He tried the first door he came to, which was locked. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the absurdity. Considered, for only a split second, telling the other man he was up to bat again, but then shoved his whole weight against the wood, molars grinding tight against one another when it didn't budge. He threw his body against it again and again until it gave with a splintering crack, revealing the bathroom.

His brief flit of satisfaction was briskly dashed as his eyes immediately landed upon the figure of a wild-eyed man on his knees in the clawfoot bathtub. His mouth was duct-taped, his wrists bound and secured to the neck of the shower. His eyes, wide and wild with fear, flooded with urgency at the sight of Dane, who only blinked at him, brow crinkling. "O..kay?" He whispered under his breath, cocking his head to the side and stepping into the bathroom to flip open the medicine cabinet. He ignored the man's frantic and pleading mumbles, quickly turning to sobs, and rifled through the cabinet's contents — pocketing a couple bottles of pills but finding nothing else of use. Glancing at the man again, he closed the cabinet and leaned to pull off a shirt that was hanging on one of the towel racks. He turned away, rolling his eyes at the desperate hitch in the man's stifled cries as he closed the door behind him.

"Hey man, real quick—" Dane called out as he stepped down the hall, already ripping the shirt to useable shreds. The apartment wasn't terribly large, wherever the other man had gone, he would have no trouble hearing him. "Am I here to be your fall guy?" It made sense. He'd bled all over the place. Jacek would wake up in the morning, probably hundreds of miles away, and pop a pair of aspirins for his headache, while Dane would be tugging stitches into his calf and waiting for someone to swab his blood off anything. Assuming he left the apartment complex in anything but the back of a cop car or an ambulance's body-bag. As he found his new companion, he jabbed a thumb toward the bathroom. "The uh, chump in the tub." He plopped down on the couch and began rolling up his pant leg. "Or did you get bored of him and I'm to be his replacement?"

Noah St Cloud

- - -

OOC: I dunno if you had any plans for Leslie. If you did, then just lemme know if I went way too far way too fast, lmao.

Also, Dane when he sees dude:

[Noah St Cloud]

OOC: Lmao it’s great! I love it >:] Meanwhile this post is a long hot mess and I apologise lol


He only glimpsed the weird-ass rat. It had scampered off with a shoe and – yep, a glance down confirmed his companion was now missing one. Though bemused, Noah resisted the urge to put his hands on his hips and stare pointedly at the guy's foot until he received an explanation. He’d clearly missed something important, probably when he was busy coaxing the door open. Was the stranger the second coming of Dr. Dolittle? It would be an unusual gift for a criminal, a power seemingly more suited to a ‘peace and love’ type of person, and usually he’d be spilling over with questions but his excitement was considerably dampened by both the nature of the gift and the scenario they were in. Animal communication didn’t seem like a skill he could borrow. Plus, he couldn’t allow himself to get too distracted when there were cops outside and the mysteries of Leslie Donovan to unravel.

Regardless, the stranger didn’t seem impressed by the open door. His praise was delivered mockingly, accompanied by the tiniest round of applause for emphasis. Privately Noah decided his new acquaintance would be dubbed ‘Sassy-Pants’ until further notice, yet he wasn’t truly offended by his words alone and he reacted to the praise as if it had been genuine, beaming as he dipped into a small bow. Sassy-Pants was all-smiles as well, even if they were cloying in a manner that was meant to deride, oozing sarcasm in response to Noah’s offer before he outright refused it.

He clapped his shoulder as he passed into the apartment. Noah’s grin didn’t waver but, inwardly, he bristled at the uninvited touch.

“I’m Nick, by the way,” he called after him. Fellow criminal or not, there was no way in hell Noah was going to give his real name. Doing so would simply be asking for trouble. Why tempt fate like that? And the pseudonym felt fitting – he was likely to nick things from Leslie’s apartment, after all. He chuckled at his own joke, contentedly swanning into the kitchen until his fleeting moment of peace was disturbed by the sound of someone using their body as a battering ram.

Noah almost hissed, ready to spring forward and tackle Sassy-Pants before he could cause more damage – did the guy not know what discretion was? But he stopped himself, remembering a heartbeat later that there was no need to be subtle anymore. Not unless he wanted to clean up the bloodstains as well. He rolled his eyes at himself and started rifling through cupboards and pulling out drawers, looking for oddities. Nothing stood out. No saws were hidden among the cutting knives, nor were there industrial grade meat grinders stashed behind mixing bowls. There were only ready-meals in the freezer. No severed limbs.

It wasn’t too hard to squash his disappointment; there were still other rooms to look through. In the meantime, he rolled his shoulders and took out a clean glass, filling it with cold water. He knew Sassy-Pants hadn’t been serious when he’d made those requests, but he saw humour in carrying them out anyway. And just as he turned the tap off (no bottled water for him) and turned back to face the living area, the other man called out to him.

Noah’s brow flashed upwards at the initial question. At the second, he guffawed. “You’re kidding. There’s someone in the tub?” Abandoning the glass on a counter, he rushed over to the bathroom. Then he knocked on the broken door, just for the hell of it. “You decent in there, bud?” Muffled whimpering confirmed that whoever they were, they were alive. Holy shit. Sassy-Pants hadn't been joking. He grinned and threw a hand over his eyes. “I’m not hearing a yes but I’m coming in anyway. Cover up if you can!” He stepped inside, peeking through his fingers. Met the wide, red-rimmed and pleading stare of the captive man.

“Ah fuck –” He flinched backwards out of the doorway and out of the man’s sight. Annoyance lanced through him, downturning his lips. He’d assumed the man would be blindfolded –  that just seemed like the reasonable thing to do to a person when keeping them hostage! Noah already had one witness to his trespassing and two seemed excessive. It was possible he would need to get rid of one. And one seemed less likely to cooperate with police than the other.

Whatever. He'd think about that later. He whistled lowly, shaking his head as he strolled back into the living area. “Yikes. Y’know, I’ve thought about keeping a person captive like that before, but I figured it would be too much hassle in the long run.” It was possible he was getting a bit reckless in regards to Sassy-Pants. Speaking his mind rather than carefully picking out what was socially acceptable. But he imagined he’d never see the other man again and it was nice – a rarity – to say whatever he wanted without wondering whether his conversation partner would try to get him incarcerated.

“Anyway.” He clasped his hands, practically glowed with satisfaction. “The good news is, I’m always right.” If nothing else, his suspicions that Leslie was no ordinary woman had been validated. He clicked his fingers into a finger gun, brow rising upwards again in realisation. “Oh! And when she comes back she’ll probably clean up your mess or at least try to, and I don’t imagine she’ll be calling the cops to investigate who broke in. So that’s great for Team Us.” He flashed Sassy-Pants an even wider grin and two thumbs up, before dropping both without ceremony and heading back over to the kitchen.

“The bad news is, I was hoping for something a little more…” He clucked his tongue. “Mystical.” He retrieved the glass of water and swept his eyes over the plain walls before turning back to Sassy-Pants, curious to see if there would be any reaction to such a statement. Would his attitude change? Would he suddenly be made nervous by the idea that Noah was actively searching for gifted? He doubted it. If the guy hadn’t been phased at the bound and gagged man in the bath, he doubted a simple word could make him squirm. “I guess there’s still a chance but, eh. I’m not into murder-y women.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, crossing the room once more to place the glass on the living area's coffee table. If the dude wanted to drink from it and leave even more DNA on the scene, that was his choice. Noah wagged his finger at him. “No forehead kiss until you’ve earned it.” He winked, then spun towards the bedroom.

“Hey Sassy-Pants, what’s your bet on Tub-Guy? Organ harvesting? Maybe something like that Stephen King book – ‘Misery’? Or is this just a classic serial killing case?”

The bedroom was as uninspiring as the rest of the apartment. Same dull carpet and cream walls. Greige bedsheets that looked like they had been white until washed with a black jumper. And there was a small, flimsy-looking desk with an office chair which he immediately dropped down onto and spun around on. Because why wouldn’t he? Spinny-chairs were great. He opened the first drawer of the desk. Stationery. The second held a huge pad of lined paper. Nothing scribbled on there, unfortunately. The third contained… a sewing kit?

He pulled it out. When closed it was roughly the size of his spread hand, and when opened it revealed a rainbow of different thread spools, some scissors, and a tiny push-pin cushion stuck with multiple sewing needles. He hummed thoughtfully. Glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. There was more to explore, likely a reason hidden somewhere as to why she had a man in her bath but… wouldn’t it be fun to play at surgeon? It felt like a sign that the kit was one of the first things Noah found in there. And Sassy-Pants seemed like a fun guy to stick needles in. 

Mind made up, he held up his discovery as he exited the bedroom, wiggling it much like he’d done with the lockpick. “Looky, looky. You can even pick your favourite colour!” He flipped the kit open as he approached, displaying the assortment of hues before sliding down onto his knees on the floorspace diagonally from his ‘patient’. He propped an elbow on the couch seat and rested the side of his face on his fist, making no attempt to hand the kit over. Instead, he grinned up at him expectantly. “Want a hand?”


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

The other man, Nick as he was apparently named, ran off to investigate the bathroom. Dane grinned as he listened to his discovery of the captive man. It was a pleasant response — his surprise not horrified but almost excited. There was a certain playful giddiness there, kin-like to Dane's usual nonchalance when it came to violence and other things that should have shocked. His smile slipped into a grimace however as his leg gave a painful throb. His adrenaline was ebbing, hot pain nipping at its retreating heels, and he could feel a fresh sheen of sweat break across his face and body. He abandoned the rolling up of his pantleg — the fabric too tight and the constriction too brutal against his wound — and instead eased a finger into the slice. He tore the hole bigger, then ripped and pulled until the pantleg tugged free just above the ugly gash. It oozed a steady, dark red and the fresh air somehow stung more than the rub of his jeans.

Dane tossed the ripped piece of dark, soaked denim away to plop wetly on the carpet just as Nick re-entered, positively gleaming. His comments about their captive spurred a bit of curiosity within Dane, which compounded further when he voiced how his assumptions about the apartment's tenant were correct. He shot him a weighing glance, accompanied by a cursory grin, before considering briefly the pool of blood seeping into the beige carpet beneath his socked foot. "Yay," Dane shrugged. He supposed it was a relief that the tenant would be willing to clean everything up, but he wasn't truly concerned about it. He'd never bothered being careful before, trusting the fancy-suits and big-brains in the guild to have taken their necessary precautions about databases and crime scenes. Or, more accurately, just not caring how much trouble he shoved in their laps or who came after him.

Much more interesting was why Nick was staking this apartment and its mysterious tenant who kept middle-aged gentlemen gagged in her bathtub. Was he indeed a hunter? His reference to the 'mystical' seemed pretty telling. Dane wondered briefly if he'd seen the rat clambering up the stairwell with his bloody shoe secured between its teeth. He made no allusion that he had, but a lack of surprise and question could be rather telling as well. Dane couldn't help the slight, excited pull to his lips as Nick's gaze flitted over him, surely probing for a reaction from the statement. If he was a hunter and had seen the rat, perhaps he was sizing Dane up as his new target. An unexpected stand-in for the tenant who'd let him down. Dane would be more than happy to provide if Nick decided to act — hunters were notorious for immediately flying off the handle at any gifted individual they came across, something Dane found rather hilarious despite his affiliations — and if he thought he was at a disadvantage due to his casual bleeding out, he'd certainly change his tune when his dog's spit-slathered jaws crunched around his bones.

Yet, Nick's friendly demeanor hardly wavered. He remained upbeat and jubilant as he swept himself into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, spouting comments and inquiries as if the situation were entirely normal or they were discussing something horribly mundane, rather than sitting in a broken-into apartment with a man gagged in the next room. But Dane knew this familiar game — grin and joke while you felt someone out — and was happy to play. He lifted his eyes to Nick as he set the glass on the table, poking his lips into a quick, fleeting pout as he was denied a forehead kiss. "Such a tease."

As Nick stepped away, presumably to poke about the rest of the apartment, Dane called after him. "My guess? Our bathtub buddy is just a boyfriend with a wandering eye. Was a little too nice to the waitress or came home smelling of someone else's perfume. Bam! Tub time." He chortled, before gulping down half the water and smacking his lips with satisfaction."We've all been there, am I right?" Many years ago, one of his ex-girlfriends (if she could be called such) had left him hog-tied in the trunk of an old car that she then abandoned in an overgrown field. Because of Grace of all people. Fortunately, that summer hadn't been too terribly hot and Dino (with all his soft, mollifying charm) had managed to sweet-talk her out of the dirty details and found him worse for wear, but alive. Dane wondered where that woman was now — probably half as pretty and twice as crazy, if not dead. "Oh wait, you don't like murder-y women." Dane barked a short laugh, as if the suggestion was entirely preposterous. Why not? They kept you sharp and on your toes. And there was a bit of a thrill in never knowing if they wanted to bed or bury you. Never being able to anticipate just how the night would end.

Dane's amused grin fell as he replaced the cup on the table and returned to ripping the stranger's shirt to shreds; testing their length against his calf and disappointed to find they were a bit too short. At the sound of Nick's returning footfalls, he lifted his head. "We could always ask him." He shrugged again. "Though there might be a very good, mystical reason he's gagged." In his line of work, one always assumed there was a reason hands were tied, eyes were covered, mouths were gagged, or whatever else. Lest they ungag bath-tub man and he suddenly psionic scream a hole through the side of the apartment building. Mysterious, murder-y tenant lady would surely be pissed then. Dane's father, too. He could feel a prickle across his shoulder blades at the simple thought, anticipating the wracking pain of Antonio's ink ripping across his skin.

Nick settled on his knees beside him, looking a picture of easy innocence, if not for the eager, expectant grin across his lips. Dane eyed the sewing kit in his hand, wondering if the man had any experience or if he was just happy for any chance to play doctor. He narrowed his eyes, lips tugging to one side of his face as he hummed thoughtfully. He considered the guild healer he was acquainted with — the stoic woman he'd already hobbled to a half-dozen times in the few short weeks he'd been in Los Eurosia. She was skilled, quite pretty, and (already) utterly detested him. Which was understandable, since Dane could never resist the maddening urge to try and get under her skin every time he dragged himself, half-dying, to her feet. To get a reaction, provoke an emotion from her, to make that icy carapace she was so completely shrouded in melt. His latest attempts had left things a bit tense — he counted it as a massive victory that she'd finally gotten angry enough to throw something and thought for a moment she might even stab him herself — but she likely wouldn't be pleased to see him again so soon. Maybe he should take Nick up on his offer. Give her some time to cool off, if just for the added fun of winding her up all over again. And hell, if he knocked on her door a week later with an infection or something worse due to slipshod work, she'd likely be even more agitated. Then perhaps he could play it off like it was her fault — she'd been so mean and cold to him that he'd had to stitch himself up and look where that'd gotten him.

Decided, Dane let his gaze pull from the sewing kit back to Nick's face, the hum dying in his throat as he let his pursed lips smooth. "You're not as pretty as the dime who usually sews me up, but." He paused to turn his face into his shoulder, wiping away the sweat that seeped stingingly into his eyes. "You're enthusiastic and I like that. If I'm a good patient, do I get the forehead kiss?"

"How do you want me?" Dane asked with a wink, shifting to stretch out on his stomach across the length of the couch, as uncaring about ruining the fabric with his blood as he had been the carpet. He pulled his shirt — which had grown rather damp and uncomfortable with his sweat — over his head and tossed it on the back of the couch, before propping himself on his elbows and turning his head to gaze up at Nick inquisitively. Subtly searching for any realization that might filter across the other man's eyes at the sight of the massive tattoo stretched across his entire upper back (recognizable to any fellow guild member to be Antonio's handiwork), or a reaction to the impressive collection of scars, varying in size and ugliness, that mottled his bare skin. "By the way, why are you stalking murder-y women if you're not into them? And have you done this before?" He quirked a brow and waved at his weeping calf, making it clear he was talking about their impromptu doctor roleplay rather than the stalking.

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

OOC: Noah chats so much smh, let me know if you'd like me to cut this down! I can save the tattoo questions for later c:

-----

Noah could imagine it easily enough: Leslie, a woman scorned, Hell hath no fury and all that. Sassy-Pants believed it was plausible, going so far as to imply the situation was common (clearly he had an acquired taste in partners) and he laughed when he realised Noah would disagree. Noah shrugged; it was true, getting tied up wasn't something he’d been on the receiving end of. As much as he enjoyed some aggression – some scratching and biting and hair pulling – the beds of his partners were ultimately safe. Places to feel good, to rest if he wanted. Not places to feel genuine concern about his lifespan. There was a fine balance to be struck in the level of crazy he was down for, with the key question being: did he want to be woken with a knife to his throat?

No. No he did not.

An ex-but-not-really had done that once. Blunt blade or not, he'd flipped out. Fractured her arm in his haste to get her off him – an action considered especially Not Good by all those she told since she was a bass guitarist and playing was her main source of income. She'd refused to accept it was her own fault, whining that she'd only been trying to understand his thing with knives. Stupid. So stupid.

"Smart," he mused, after Sassy-Pants pointed out there could be a gifted reason for Tub-Guy's gag. It hadn't crossed Noah's mind, being so focused on his new companion and uncovering the mysteries of Leslie that he’d barely given a second thought to the availability of the ‘spare’ piece of the puzzle. "We could try giving him a pen? Hand mobility could be equally bad news but… we could always just break it, if it looks like he’s going to conjure flames or something." A part of him was tempted to try either way. If Tub-Guy turned out to be gifted, maybe it would be something Noah could borrow.

Still grinning, he lifted his head from where it had been leaning on his fist and sat back on his heels. With his offer of help accepted, he spread the sewing kit on the floor while Sassy removed his shirt and repositioned himself onto his front, providing Noah with easier access to the wound. "Just like that," he murmured as the man settled, and eyed the huge tattoo and plethora of scars on his back with open amusement. Evidently he needed to be patched up on a regular basis. What kind of reckless lifestyle was he living? Were those scars all inflicted by the same person or was he disliked by a variety of people? Maybe the murder-y women he apparently had interest in. In any case, the scars were far too numerous to all be accidents.

Noah chuckled. "Mmm yeah, I've got enthusiasm in spades," his voice smoothed into a purr, his smile wry. "So if you're really good and stay nice and still for me while I'm working, maybe I'll let you show me how grateful you are." He inspected the gash while he spoke, not entirely certain what he was looking for – just interested in how it looked and half tempted to shove his fingers inside to see how much Sassy would writhe and swear. It was a miracle, really, that he restrained himself when the opportunity to hurt was so apparent. He placed his hands on either side of the cut, experimentally pushed it together, and concluded what was already obvious: it wouldn't meld back without help, definitely deep enough to need stitches.

He tutted and withdrew his touch, dragging his gaze back to Sassy's face. "That being said, I’m not sure it’d be wise to get your blood pumping while this is so fresh." The chiding expression didn't last for long. Although he was flirting for fun rather than having any real intentions (the jury was still out on whether Sassy-Pants was a murder-y person or simply a criminal one), the sheer comedic potential of the scenario suddenly struck him and made him beam again. He couldn't help but picture a horrified Leslie walking in mid-activity. Or Sassy passing out from blood loss. Hah.

Then came the question of why Noah had stalked Leslie in the first place. He took a moment to respond, pretending to be absorbed in the spectrum of colours provided by the kit. His fingers glided over the spools. Hovered over cobalt blue and magenta pink – blue because it was his favourite, pink because of the incident with the Hello Kitty sticker. He set aside the pink, despite expecting whatever he chose to be coloured red-brown by the time he finished.

The answer on the tip of his tongue was simple enough: the whole point of stalking Leslie was to keep his mind occupied. Yet, that particular answer could prompt why he needed that distraction, and he was reluctant to confide in some random bloke (let alone a clear criminal, potentially the kind who would have no qualms following through on the type of threats Noah made against a pretty Sector agent) about his... his what? His Tawny? His Tawny. He didn't want to think about it. Was way too sober to talk about the situation, even if he gave a watered-down version. However, it was hard not to recognise that Sassy-Pants was the rare sort of person he could be more honest with. Noah imagined he could say 'I almost killed a girl I like because she saw me kill someone else, and then I threatened to have her friends murdered and I know where she lives but she probably, very likely, doesn't want to see me again' and Sassy-Pants wouldn't bat an eye. Or he'd laugh at him. Call him a wimp for being so dramatic over one girl.

Regardless, though Noah and Tawny had only really agreed not to share their group affiliations and respective organisations' secrets with other people, he'd decided not to tell anyone anything about her as an extra precaution.

He rose to his feet, stare roaming the apartment in search of anything helpful. His thoughts were straying too far from Leslie and his surroundings again; he needed to focus. "Just for a bit of fun. I bumped into her one day and thought, 'damn, this lady is sketchy as shit'. All twitchy and stuff y'know, like a spider when a leg's been pulled off. Who doesn't like unravelling a mystery?"

"Speaking of, care to share what happened with your leg?" Storytime might help. His gaze fell upon a wine rack and spotted vodka hidden among bottles of red and white. He crossed the room to retrieve it, a hefty litre bottle that was missing a quarter of its contents, then returned to his kneeling position by Sassy-Pants' side. "And maybe you'd like to tell me your name? Since we're getting all cosy and personal."

"As for my experience..." He patted the back of Sassy-Pants' thigh with a grin, hoping for a pained grimace to pull across his face when the action jostled his calf. "You'll be just fine, sweetheart, don't you worry. A whole lotta YouTube videos, a turn in the patient seat, and my very own pretty surgeon friend all showed me how it's done. What's the worst that could happen?"

Noah reached for a decorative couch pillow. He removed and folded its cover, pressed it down on the cut as he tried to recall the details of his own stitching session. Esha had... Made him put pressure on the wound. Spread Vaseline on it. Given him Tylenol. She'd had a whole first aid box with official, sterile equipment – equipment Noah didn't exactly have. He had surgical gloves on, but he'd touched a tonne of stuff while wearing them; they weren't clean. And he had items to sew the wound together, but they were common cotton reels and sewing needles, not the professional suture thread and curved hooks specifically designed for stitching flesh.

It looked like Sassy-Pants had already raided the medicine cabinet and rubbing alcohol wasn't among his findings. Noah could sterilise the needle by boiling it, yet doing so would take time– hence his acquisition of the vodka. Not as good, but it would do. He removed the cushion cover from Sassy's leg and dropped it to the floor, freeing his hands so he could thread a needle with the magenta string. He used the small scissors in the kit to cut it to length, then twisted the cap off the bottle and dangled the needle inside. No idea how long he'd have to leave it in there to work. But he supposed somewhat-sterile was still better than not.

He used his other hand to gesture vaguely at Sassy-Pants' back. "Weird choice by the way. You lose a bet?" Noah didn't have any tattoos. Didn't feel strongly nor care to comment when he saw them on others unless they were particularly unusual and/or stupid. A giant maned wolf covering a whole back? That met his criteria. He raised the string, pulling the needle out. Paused as he considered his next move. "I'd get bored of something like that way too quickly. Probably end up ripping my skin off so I don't have to look at it." With a glance between the cut and the bottle, he shrugged and made a grab for the latter, watched the vodka glug and slush as he unceremoniously poured it on the open wound. Huh. He'd only just remembered what Esha's Vaseline was for: keeping the wound moist. Alcohol would have the opposite effect and Noah was pretty sure dry skin increased the chances of tearing while the stitches were being put in. Woops. At least infection would be less likely.


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

OOC: Lemme know if there's isn't enough to actually work with here XD

---

Dane inwardly winced at the testing fingers upon his calf but managed to keep his face mostly neutral (save the slight flutter of his eyelids). For the most part, Nick appeared to know what he was doing, which he explained with the past need to be sewn up himself. Interesting. Also interesting was his response to the possible dangers of Bathtub Buddy; a more forward and direct reference to the man's potential for being gifted. Confirming his mystical knowledge. But that only raised more questions. More curiosities.

He smirked at the flirtations, gaze flickering darkly as he considered offering a sad, exaggerated lamentation that Nick had already admitted himself that Dane wasn't his type. Feign some campy heartbreak. He watched him stand, retrieve the alcohol, and settle back. No, perhaps he'd save it for later. Let him speculate. Court the information out of him. It was only the first date, after all. "I think Sassy-Pants suits cozy and personal just fine? No? A name's earned, right, Nick? Perhaps after the gratitude part." He grinned, all teeth and cheek, then grabbed a couch pillow to stuff more comfortably under himself, settling down with the full intention of being the complacent patient Nick asked for.

Nick referenced the tattoo just as Dane had given up his subtle searching for a reaction and decided there would be no comment. Did he lose a bet? Dane laughed, short and sharp, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned contemptuously. "Yeah, something like that." It was more like he'd lost the lottery when it came to fathers (though he supposed Antonio felt much the same about him). At Nick's comment about ripping the whole thing off, his smile tucked into a considering frown. He could have laughed again, cold and bitter, but he only shrugged. He'd certainly thought about it. Had even tried a couple of times as a young boy, when the tattoo had been small; long before he set himself aside as the menace he was and it was decided he needed more tightly muzzled. The stupid deer-fox had only grown larger, more ugly and mean, with each incident. Each accidentally dead partner and thrashed assignment. Each time Dane showed up a couple of hours (or weeks) late and didn't dance to Daddy's tune. Now he was stuck with it unless he wished to flay off the majority of his back. Which, he could admit, was something he really wouldn't put past himself. And he was sure there was a long list of people willing and eager to take the knife to his flesh. He wouldn't even have to ask nicely. "Me too." Dane turned his head to cast his play-pretend doctor a quick wink, lips curling with amusement. "That's precisely why they made it so big."

The smirk twisted into something hard and ugly as Nick tipped the bottle of vodka to slosh directly into his open wound. The burn speared straight through him, hot and agonizing; more painful than it had the right to be. He was accustomed to physical hurts. There were many times it seemed he woke with the single-minded intention of resembling mincemeat by night's end. But this wasn't even fun. Perhaps if he'd actually caught Jacek —had inflicted more than just fear in the man— then he could grit and laugh as he got stitched up. But no, Jacek had squirreled away and this just fucking hurt. It was a miracle Dane didn't kick his legs reflexively or leap from the couch entirely. Instead, his entire body tensed, muscles bunching impossibly tight, and he turned to smother a hiss into his shoulder. His fists curled around the couch pillow to keep himself from striking out. Because holy fuck, he wanted nothing more than to turn and hit him. Smash his fist into Nick's face and wrestle him to the floor. An instinctual need to match blow for blow. To award pain with pain. Even as the blinding white that blotted his vision began to abate, the desire was still there, and he flexed his fingers testingly in their clutch.

"Ohhh, hohoho, thank you," Dane gritted out through a tight smile, the words sounding far more like 'fuck you' than genuine appreciation as he gurgled a laugh in his throat and released the tension bunched in all his muscles. Lifting his head, he felt a bead of sweat slip down his face to cling from the tip of his nose. "Youtube taught you that, huh? Or your pretty friend?" He puffed out his cheeks, calf feeling impossibly stiff under the lingering burn. He suspected his little ice-queen in the guild would have approached disinfection a little differently. He twisted his upper body to regard Nick, smiling thinly as he flicked the wet bangs from his forehead with a toss of his head. He pulled the bottle of liquor from his hands and tipped it to his lips, gulping down a couple of mouthfuls and finding the burn in his throat much more forgiving. "Ugh." Dane lowered the bottle, smacking disdainfully. "Can't vouch for your spider-lady's taste." Oh well. It'd help him be still. And nice. Maybe. He set the bottle back on the floor before pushing it just out of Nick's reach. Just in case.

"As for how I ended up like this," Dane dropped his head back to rest on his pillow, face turned just enough to watch the other man from his periphery. He hadn't made any truly notable remark on the tattoo. Hadn't recognized it for what it was. Which, unless he was keeping his cards close to his chest, ruled him out as a fellow guild member. That still left a number of remaining possibilities. They'd established they were both familiar with gifted. But was Nick gifted himself? A hunter? Or just a particularly knowledgeable human with dangerous interests? The Guild tended to squash other hunting syndicates like bugs. Unless said bug was useful enough to swallow into their own ranks. Likewise, gifted individuals — barring the exceptions, such as Grace and to some lesser extent, Dane himself, who had the "privilege" of being born with a high-standing surname — were to be eradicated like pests, unless they felt they were particularly useful. Then they were dogs to be leashed, trained to set upon their own kind with malicious abandon. Dane would be expected to act accordingly.

That was, if he gave a shit. Which he rarely did — another reason for his father to keep a tight muzzle.

After humming thoughtfully, Dane decided to be truthful. Nick hadn't so far proven the type of company to require tip-toeing. And if he was wrong, well, Dane didn't really mind crossing lines — fallout could be just as fun. "I was doing a bit of stalking of my own. Less careful, prowly, fancy-schmancy lock-picking, " his gaze flitted to the surgical gloves still pulled over Nick's hands. "More... stab or be stabbed, broken windows, and falling off fire escapes." His eyes lidded and the hint of a smirk returned to his lips, watching Nick work over him, looking for something — a twitch in his jaw, a pause of his fingers, a flit to his gaze — anything to read.

"I think you've made me work up a decent enough sweat now to deserve my name." His smirk deepened. "It's Dane. I do like Sassy-Pants though, that's a new one." He'd add it to his list of favored monikers, somewhere between 'little fucking brute' and 'arrogant cunt'. Oh, and 'tactless bore' — that one had a special place in his heart (along with the fond remembrance of how quickly and vehemently he'd corrected that snide, premature opinion).

"Say Spider Lady was as mystical as you hoped. What then?"

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

CW: Needles and sewing stitches


Strange, was Noah’s main thought. There was clearly something sketchy afoot; Sassy had laughed at the question, agreeing he would have ripped the tattoo off had it not been so big. Very strange. Noah’s unpainted skin was a testament to his lack of expertise in the area, but he was sure it would have taken hours to get inked like that. If Sassy-Pants hadn’t wanted it, why let them do it? Why not fight back? He didn't seem like the type to sit back and allow things he didn't want to happen, even if he showed some restraint in regards to Noah's callous handling of him. Had he been unable to fight? Been held down or otherwise made compliant by threats or lack of consciousness? Or was it Sassy’s own reckless choice to mark himself in such a way, as some form of self-punishment or inside joke? Noah pushed the wonderings away with a small shake of his head. It wasn’t important. He was probably overthinking a drunken mistake.

Vodka sloshed. Sassy’s entire form stiffened while his fists gripped tight. He buried his face into his shoulder to suffocate what could have been a pained noise, and Noah watched it all with dark eyes and an excited flutter in his stomach. The bottle was tipped upright. Withdrawn. Even as Sassy re-emerged from behind his arm and ground out a disingenuous thank you, Noah’s stare hungrily followed the bead of sweat that slid down his grimacing face. He bit back the urge to rub circles into his patient’s thigh. Drowned the impulse to coo oh, did that hurt you, baby?

“Sorry, hon. I had to get you clean,” he said instead, his expression and tone regretful as if Sassy were a mucky pup he’d been forced to bathe. Perhaps if he’d done some further digging, finished his exploration of Leslie’s room, he might have come across a first aid kit with a nice, soothing disinfectant cream. But Noah didn’t have the time nor care – and Sassy seemed to recognise his doctor’s lack of bedside manner, pulling the vodka from his hands to drink like it was water. Noah chuckled. “I would have found cotton pads or something to dab it on but, let’s face it, this was quicker. And look, you handled it so well! I’m proud of you.” He turned his attention back to the wound. Should he pat it dry? With what?

He settled for picking the cushion cover back up, dabbing at the excess liquid that had streamed down the calf. He left the wound itself and the surrounding skin alone lest he make it unsterile again, and listened to Sassy’s summary of the events that had led him to such a state. Huh. He was the violent type after all. And it was hard not to notice his intent gaze fixed on Noah’s face as if searching for a reaction – perhaps the panic or wariness that Noah himself would look for when he approached recruits for the first time. Testing. Measuring. Thus, Noah’s instinctive feeling was that his patient was a hunter, because of course he would run into one and he very much doubted Sassy was a fellow recruiter. But then again, just because Sassy was a criminal and knew about gifted, that didn’t necessarily confirm he was a gifted-killer. It was possible he was in some sort of gang (ah, that would explain the tattoo) and he’d been chasing down a rival group member or someone who’d missed a protection payment. Did Los Eurosia have organised crime like that? Noah wouldn’t be surprised at that point. He'd seen a lot of wild stuff since moving there.

He hummed, deciding (perhaps irresponsibly) to ignore his suspicions until he had concrete evidence. “Hey, it happens.” Stab or be stabbed and broken windows… Sounded like a Thursday night. His lips twisted in brief consideration. “The falling off fire escapes is probably a unique experience to you though. Anyway, it’s sewing time.” The cushion cover was promptly ditched. One hand pinched the cut together while his other positioned the needle near the top, holding it a 90-degree angle about a centimetre to the right of the wound. Interrupted sutures were simple to place. Secure. And in the event of a mistake, they would allow him to make changes with a lot less fuss than a continuous stitch would.

It was surprisingly easy to push the needle through skin and flesh. He’d imagined it would require more force and he blinked curiously at the way it almost popped in. Wait – not so deep, don’t go below the fat, stay just right above it… He cocked his head, shifting his position until the side of his hip was pressed against the sofa. Now he just had to turn it, twist it through to the other side of the cut and push it up out of the skin… Yikes. This was why hooked needles were used. The straight one didn’t exactly allow for an easy swoop. Maybe he should have found a lighter and heated the pin until it could be reshaped. Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Nevertheless he managed to get it through. He weaved the thread into the first knot – careful not to pull the wound too taut lest a simple movement later made the stitch tear – then the second, then the third, before snipping the excess and sitting back with a smug grin, no attempt made to hide how pleased he was with himself. One down, probably five or seven to go. In the meantime Dane, as he was apparently called (Noah had stifled the urge to snort, immediately thinking of Great Danes – if they ever traded phone numbers he knew the puppy emoji would be making its debut in his contacts), had asked him a question.

“Well, it would entirely depend on what she could do… If it’s useful or anything fun.” Whether he could borrow it, essentially. If he could, that was motivation to get close – to charm and ingratiate so he could play with it whenever he desired. If he couldn’t – well, he’d do his duty. Give ‘the talk’ for Blackstorm and earn himself some brownie points by bringing someone new into the fold. Noah hummed again, finishing up his second stitch. “Y’know, I’d really love to meet someone with pheromone manipulation or mind control. Something that bends freewill a little y’know, see what crazy shit it could make people do.” He pushed the needle back in. “Is that what you do with animals? Or is it more of a Disney Princess type deal where you’re friends with all the squirrels?” Noah had been dying to ask, and he figured since they were spending more time together than he'd originally planned, there was no reason not to.


Dane Wayland
OOC: if there's not enough to reply to, feel free to say the stitches are finished and have them go harass their bathtub friend lmao - or maybe Dane could show off Snowcone? whatever you like~

[Dane Wayland]

After the intense heat of Nick's unorthodox disinfection, Dane half-expected to be numb to the feel of needle and thread weaving through his skin. But the alcohol had left his wound angry and raw, his muscles stiff and achy, and the poke and pull — while incomparable to the oppressive burn that'd preceded it — still hurt. But this hurt was manageable... familiar... and Dane let his eyes slip close while Nick worked. The sharp pressure of each pinprick, the peculiar feel of thread being tugged through his skin, and the steady weight of Nick's fingers pressing, holding, and hovering — it was all very methodical and lulling. He had a feeling, without even seeing the work, that he wouldn't be able to pass it off as his own — it was too delicate. Too neat. 

Nick had taken the story behind the wound in stride. At this point though, Dane was hardly surprised. Though there was a great deal of mystery and unanswered questions about him, Dane decided Nick was the unflappable type at least. Not likely to blanch at his more unsavory hobbies. Perhaps someone who even shared some of them, if his nonchalant statement that "these things happened" was anything to go off of. Dane hummed consideringly as the other man expressed a desire to meet someone who possessed the gift of mind control or pheromone manipulation. He drummed his fingers against his arm, thinking of his own experiences with the type. None of them had been good and he wasn't sure he wanted to discuss them, especially since they all ended in messy murders and he wasn't keen to expose that bit of his lifestyle just yet.

But then Nick shifted the question to Dane's own gift and he felt his lips pull into a small grin. He cracked open an eye and shifted his head to again gauge Nick with a sidelong look. "You're so nosy, Nick. So forward. What if I'm bashful?" The smirk upon his face was clear evidence to the contrary and, needing no further prompting or encouragement, Dane propped himself on his elbows and stretched an arm out to the side, palm facing up. "Think... less Snow White, more... Ash Ketchum."

He wiggled his fingers for flare and his eyes glinted with focus as a tiny light, accompanied by a wave of heat, kindled above his palm. Unlike with the rat, Dane truly thought about his conjuring. Pictured the anatomy he'd studied. Took the time to make it perfect and impressive. The light grew, twirled, and in a flash, became a spiny bush viper, who fell into his hand with a performative hiss. Its keened scales, purple and green, glimmered. Dane's smirk deepened, eyelids falling heavy over his eyes as the snake twisted around him. Beautiful. Moving up his forearm, the snake lifted its head toward Nick, its tongue flickering from its mouth to taste the air between them. The tiny cat-like slits of its eyes moved slowly in its sockets, discerning. Dane felt the snake tighten around him — watched as well as felt the minuscule pull to its head that he knew preceded a strike. He chuckled and let the summoning fall away; the snake blinking from existence with another brief flash, as if the same light from before had consumed it from inside. He waggled his fingers again.

"Am I fun or useful enough to do anything with?" He bat his eyelashes, feigning a meek bashfulness though the charade was laced with a bit of underhanded challenge. An invitation. An internal, indomitable desire for Nick to be a hunter. To attack him now that he'd shown his cards. Did he know Dane had a stacked deck? Nick had seen a rat. A snake. Perhaps he wasn't impressed. But was he prepared for Snowcone? Did someone get used to Snowcone? What about a fucking bear? It was always enough to make him laugh.

The stitching was done, so Dane, still smirking, levered himself to a sitting and inspected the handiwork. It wasn't bad, but it certainly wasn't what he was used to. A great deal better than his own hasty work and a great deal worse than the skilled, practiced help he frequently sought. But he supposed he couldn't be ungrateful. "It looks good, Doc! Will make for an ugly scar to remember you by." If it started to heal badly then he'd go to the safehouse anyway. Get it cleaned up proper. If he was being honest, he'd likely be there within days' time anyways. Trouble just had a way of finding him and he had a penchant for walking away from it a bit busted up.

His eye drew to his dark, ripped jeans, made darker with sweat and blood. He spread his toes in his crimson-soaked sock and grimaced at the feel of sticky blood drying between his toes, as well as the consequent pull in his calf that came with the wiggling. He cast a forlorn glance at the soaked shirt he'd thrown on the back of the couch, before his eyes flitted back to Nick. "Hey, how big is Spider Lady anyway? Think she's got some clothes that'll fit me? I prefer pastel pinks and flower print, but..." he glanced about the drab, decor-less living room. "She doesn't seem the type." His eyes lit. "But maybe she's got stuff for her tub fella, depending on how long she planned to keep him." He stood and put some weight on his leg, wincing at the pain but then shrugging it off and casting Nick a quick wink. "I think we should ask him. See what he's in for."

He stepped down the hall, limping considerably, not wanting to strain the fresh stitches and pull Nick's handiwork loose unnecessarily. As he went, he tossed a hand in the air and called over his shoulder. "Oh, and I've shown you mine, Nick, now show me yours. Don't be shy!"

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Dane met Noah’s inquiry with a smirk and a playful chiding rather than with the confusion of an uninformed human. Noah’s thrown net had caught; the rat hadn’t been some weird coincidence nor strange hallucination, and Dane held out his palm with a wiggle of his fingers to demonstrate the fact. Little by little a light glimmered and grew above his hand until abruptly a snake appeared in its place. It dropped with a hiss, spiked, shiny scales like a tiny wingless dragon, a pretty mixture of almost metallic greens and purples. Noah gazed with rounded eyes, a fascinated pull to his lips. His position on the floor made him feel much like a kid at a birthday party, entertained by a magician pulling bunnies from a hat. And much like a kid who didn’t know the meaning of ‘look but don’t touch’, he lifted his hand slightly towards it.

There was the tiniest coil to the snake’s body as if it were about to strike. He almost wanted it to – to see if it could hurt him, proving it was an actual physical being rather than an illusion, and to see if Dane’s power would transfer over and the pretty little creature would fall under his control instead. Except it disappeared in another flash of light, leaving Noah to blink at the space it no longer occupied. Holy crap. He had so many questions. If Dane was Ash Ketchum did that mean he had these animals stored somewhere? The gift equivalent of Pokéballs? Had he run around in the wild until he found the snake to capture? Or had he broken into the local zoo, picking out whatever creatures he liked the look of as though he were shopping for clothes?

Noah huffed a short laugh. “That remains to be seen,” he mused, dragging his excited stare from Dane’s palm to his face. “But I’m definitely interested.” He could be useful, but perhaps not in the way Noah specifically desired. If Dane’s power could be summarised as capturing animals and using them to do his bidding, Noah wasn’t sure he’d have access to Dane’s collection if the gift came into his hands. Maybe he would have to fill up his own store, something that would take time he wouldn’t necessarily have.

The final stitch was finished with the same mediocrity as the rest. Dropping the needle back in the sewing kit, he sat back on his heels with his fists on his hips while he assessed his work. It wasn't terrible. In light of it being his first time, he thought it looked pretty good! He soaked up Dane’s praise (sincere or not) with a pleased little shoulder shimmy and waggled brow. God, he so should have studied medicine at university. He could have been a surgeon, sewing up people every day and getting paid for it. Maybe he still could… He had the money for it, and sure he'd be a little older than the rest of his class and it would take at least ten years to get the official title – but this little taster session had been so much fun!

Dane stood, apparently fancying a change of clothes as he inquired after Leslie’s wardrobe and sizing. Noah hummed approvingly, eyeing his sodden ripped jeans and shirtless torso. He assumed Dane had realised his appearance probably draw some attention whenever he decided to leave the apartment. “She’s about five-seven. Only ever seems to wear t-shirts. Pants might be a little short and loose on you but we could probably find a belt,” Noah supplied, standing as well. He didn’t immediately follow his companion, flexing his fingers as he watched Dane limp away with that unusually large tattoo on his scarred back. Very strange guy.

Although they’d joked about it and doing so was sure to unveil some interesting answers, Noah was reluctant to talk to Tub-Guy – to be seen and to give more details for the captive to report if he was ever rescued by police. Maybe he could persuade Dane to do the interrogating, excusing himself to rifle through Leslie’s bedroom.

As he was pondering his options Dane requested to see Noah’s gift. It was frustrating. And when he arranged his expression into something appropriately sorrowful, a long-suffering sigh to match, it was only half feigned. “I’d love to, Sassy, especially since you’ve been so accommodating with me. But unfortunately I’m a little too human at this point in time.” If only witnessing a gift were enough for Noah to steal it. Life would be a lot easier, and heaps more fun. He shrugged the thought away, sauntering after Dane with a bright smile on his face and an eager glint in his eyes. “But who cares! I wanna talk about you. Do you have that snake somewhere or did you make it? If you made it, was it venomous too – meaning you can make poison? Was it actually alive? Can you combine animals, like, if you gave the rat the snake’s fangs? Can you make or hold anything bigger than something that fits in your hand?” The questions tumbled from his mouth like a waterfall, too curious and conscious of their limited time together to patiently pry answers one by one.

Noah’s eyes widened. He guffawed. “Ho-ly shit. Have you ever tried making or capturing – whatever – a person before? C’mon, don’t even try to deny it, I bet you have.” His lips curled wickedly. “I bet it was during your teenage years, hm? Tried to make yourself a girlfriend? Ya nasty.”

He hesitated by the bathroom door, lips pressed into a considering line. It was his last chance to back out, to make the detour into Leslie’s room and call out an apology to Dane, followed by encouragements to interview their third wheel without him.

He went into the bathroom.

By Noah’s standards, Tub-Guy didn’t look too worse for wear. Not battered. Not starving nor especially weak by any means. His eyes were rheumy and red from crying, tear tracks streaked over his cheeks to confirm it, but he was no longer making those frantic, pitiful noises that pleaded for help. Apparently he’d lost faith in them.

Noah kneeled beside the bath, entwined his fingers with his forearms laying on the ceramic edge. Tub-Guy’s dull stare dropped to Noah’s gloves, speckled with Dane’s blood. The red smeared vividly against the white of the tub when Noah lifted his hands in a placating manner. “Hey, man, no worries – this is his blood.” He smiled, briefly jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Dane before settling his hands back on the tub side. “We’re all friends here, we’ve got no problem with you. How you doing?” Tub-Guy was unable to answer. He gave a short keen and a wide-eyed, disbelieving look as if to say ‘how do you think I’m doing?’ Hah. Feisty. Noah glanced back at Dane, lips briefly flicking up into a sly smirk. “Hands or mouth?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Without a pad and pen for Tub-Guy to write with, mouth was the only real option.

He slowly peeled the duct-tact from Tub-Guy’s mouth, grimacing in feigned sympathy as it pulled at the surrounding skin and left it raw and angry. Hopefully Dane’s theory about a speech-reliant gift was incorrect. “Hi there. What’s your name?” Noah tried again. Tub-Guy’s lips parted, and with the frightened slant to his eyebrows Noah expected him to start begging to be released again. What came out instead was a rasp followed by a hacking cough. Yikes. Noah leaned back to avoid the wheezing exhales, his eyebrows raised. “Ooo are you thirsty, my guy?” He pushed himself up, moving to the sink where a ceramic pot held a toothbrush upright. He plucked the toothbrush out, leaving it on the side so he could fill the pot with water from the tap, then held it to Tub-Guy’s lips.

He gulped it down without complaint, even as drops spilled messily down his chin and into his lap. When he was finished, Noah set the pot down and looked at him expectantly.

He swallowed. Licked his lips. “Ray,” his voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Ray?” Noah echoed, suppressing a laugh. “That name’s almost as bad as dog-boy’s over here.”


Dane Wayland
OOC: sorry this got longer than intended >.<

[Dane Wayland]

Dane felt Nick's eyes on his back as he strode down the hall. The man's reaction to the reveal of his gift — the pretty, dangerous snake that had desired to strike him — had far exceeded his expectations. But the reveal that Nick had no Gift to show in turn was a bit disappointing. His little addendum, 'at this point in time', was curious, making Dane crinkle his nose thoughtfully. What could that mean? Perhaps he possessed a gift that only worked under specific circumstances? Or maybe a human who'd been promised to be bestowed with a gift? Nick's own disappointment at the admittance was obvious enough. But Dane didn't linger in his own wondering long as the other man launched into a bombardment of questions, each one following the last with no break. He was like an inquisitive, niggling child — unable to stop their chittering once started.

Dane paused at the bathroom door with his back still turned to Nick, head rolling upon his shoulders and eyes rolling in their sockets. He wasn't a fellow hunter then — what hunter would be so curious to know the inner workings of someone's gift when they just planned to murder them? He supposed some hunters (probably especially the human ones) might like to feel somewhat prepared against a Gifted's abilities before they launched an attack. Seek some comfort by picking apart their opponent's powers in an attempt to make their movements and actions more predictable. But that was positively boring — Dane found that acting quicker, before a well-thought-out Q&A session, was more efficient. Or at the very least, more fun. Learning what worked and what didn't work as he went. Earning each bit of information through blood and sweat. Exchanging (sometimes ineffectual) blows, dodging unforeseen abilities, and figuring out a workable strategy at the height of combat was what a fight was all about for him. And one of the many reasons he found himself with a foot in the grave so often.

What would be the point in Dane sharing how his gift worked anyway? Especially when the conversation would be so dully one-sided, Nick being powerless and all. Was it just curiosity? Or if not a hunter, perhaps Nick was a Sector agent — a very uncouth Sector agent — eager to make a file on him. In truth, Dane's gift wasn't so easy to explain in only a few words. Bits and pieces of what Nick suggested held some truth but his questions couldn't be answered with a simple 'yes' or 'no'. There were plenty of intricacies and 'but's.

His beasts had existed somewhere at one time and what Dane summoned was a copy of them. A fully-functional mimicry that he rebuilt from the inside out as he called them to life. Little clones that learned bit by bit — changed and became better — with each breath he bestowed upon them. Snowcone had once been a large, dopey puppy belonging to a friend, brought over to play among them when Dane was a little boy. That dog had died almost twenty years ago but Snowcone remained, forever a picture of the canine in its prime. He couldn't make dinosaurs. Couldn't create some mythical beast that he'd never seen and touched (though in his early days, most of his summons were unrecognizable and horrific enough to be classified as a completely different entity than whatever it was he'd intended).

It wasn't an easy gift to learn and as he grew into it, he realized it required him to know the structure and composition of those summons he wished to create effectively. A bird could not fly with dense bones. A wolf could not fight without lungs. A venomous snake was venomous, but only if he included all the delicate parts and organs that made it so. Technically, yes — he could add fangs to a rat and had tried a great number of similar things in his childhood when his summons had been more experimental than functional. But the result was always the same. The more he deviated from the original creature's form — the more its body was unable to reconcile with the new, strange additions and modifications — the lesser the integrity of the summon. It was weaker. More chaotic and harder to control. Easier to unravel and make disappear. It was always simpler to stay true to form, only making small modifications if he found the loss in fortitude worth it. And, though Nick had been joking, humans were far too complicated to get right. 

(Not that he'd tried, of course...you understand...)

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Dane responded, his tone somewhat bristly even as it was pitched with warmth and the words were followed by a smile as he turned to face his inquisitive acquaintance. "It's cute that you're so chatty and curious and, don't get me wrong, I really wanna be friends, but uh..." he tipped his head, eyes darting between Nick's while his smiled widened. "Give me a reason first why I should tell you?" He pushed the door open and Nick stepped into the bathroom.

As he knelt by the tub and began his assurances to their captive friend, Dane stepped after him and gave the pair a cursory glance, pondering amusedly how this made for some stereotypical, made-for-movie Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. He pulled out his phone, both pleased and astonished to find it hadn't been cracked in his eventful pursuit, and snapped a picture of the still-gagged man. He sent it off to a couple of contacts before pocketing the device again and glancing up at himself in the dingy mirror. Holy fuck, he looked terrible. With a scoff, he cleaned the blood from his hands and splashed the sweat from his face with a few scoops of water. He pulled a hand-towel from its rack, gave it a testing sniff, then sat on the toilet next to Nick while wiping the water from his face and swiping at the blood on his leg, careful to avoid rubbing too hard at his new stitches.

At Nick's jest about his name, he paused in his ministrations and lifted his eyes, shooting him a sarcastic grin. He lifted his foot (the one still shoed) to plant firmly into the man's hip and gave him a light shove, aiming to topple his precarious balance. Immediately after though, his phone buzzed in his pocket and he shushed the other two men exaggeratedly as he lifted it before him. "Holy shit." Dane snorted a laugh, gaze drifting to Tub-Guy as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, re-reading the text message he'd received. "You're Ray Donovan."

Tub-Guy did well not to visibly react but Dane could see the subtle stiffening of his muscles. A certain hardness that shadowed across his face, making the tear streaks there seem a bit misplaced.

He was, in fact, a Gifted individual with a rap and Dane was happy they hadn't unbound his hands. A lot of people wanted Ray's head and he'd killed many a hunter who'd gone after him. The Guild would pay a pretty penny to receive the report that he was dead. His father would be so pleased. And here he was practically gift-wrapped for him, already bound and incapacitated. "How did you of all people end up hog-tied in a tub?" Was Spider Lady just someone who'd gotten lucky? Or did she have something to lord over him? Was this a simple case of scorned-lover after all or was she a hunter?

Dane's gaze lifted slowly to Nick, regarding him coolly as he contemplated their options. He supposed now was the time to broach more directly the danced-around topic of unsavory hobbies. He clicked the picture on his phone and turned the device to show his acquaintance. It showed a picture of Ray that was more mugshot than candid and listed a bounty (with plenty of zeros) and a small, trivialized list of Ray's crimes and offenses. Nothing on paper ousted the Guild itself but at the very least it made apparent what Dane considered his profession. He quirked a brow at Nick. Moment of truth. "If you ask me, I'm thinking the tears and pleading earlier was a bit of an act. A lot of people in my circles are baying for this dude's blood." He tapped his fingers against his thigh, pursing his lips to one side thoughtfully. "Not that I particularly ever care what they want. But... well...." he turned his look to Ray, lowering the phone and shrugging his shoulders while he lifted his arms up in a comical display of helplessness; palms up, lips poking into a pout."They know I've got you where we got you, so if I were to leave here empty-handed...." He sucked a breath through his teeth and scrunched up his face. "Some people will probably be pretty upset with me."


---

Noah St Cloud

SPOILER: Click to show

Wait, I've got just the Dane gif for this~

[Noah St Cloud]

Although the light shove to his side almost made him topple, Noah only responded with a snicker. He was fully prepared to whine about getting dirt on his sweater, innocently ask if he’d said something wrong, and tease Dane further with some thinly veiled canine references (eventually escalating into fashioning a collar from one of Leslie’s belts), but the buzz of Dane’s phone shut him up before he could begin. He eyed the device with casual curiosity, trying to hide how its presence stirred a wariness in his gut with the wondering of whether the camera would be turned on him. While he wasn’t too concerned about being identified by one of Dane’s friends, a photo would be evidence in the event Dane was caught – evidence that the police could use to track Noah down, ask what he was doing in Leslie’s apartment with bloody gloves on and a man tied up beside him.

Dane laughed, declaring Tub-Guy to be ‘Ray Donovan’ an instant later. Huh. Plot twist. Noah sucked air between his teeth and winced in exaggerated sympathy, leaning over to give Ray a pat on the shoulder. Cramped in the tub as he was, the other man failed to evade his touch.

It might have been the perfect moment to slap his knees and stand up, proclaiming the mystery solved: Team Hell hath no fury had won again. But Dane made him pause once more – the relatively serious look he was suddenly giving him warranted Noah’s full attention and a quirked brow. It was as if some choice was being made and, after a moment, Noah found out what it was.

Dane turned the phone screen for Noah to view, displaying a mugshot style photo of Ray alongside a list of crimes. Noah tutted as he skimmed through it, shooting Ray a sideways glance with an expression somewhere between amused and disgusted. “Naughty boy.” But the offences weren’t truly important; the interesting part was the money on offer. And it was a lot of money, clueing Noah into the fact it was no ordinary bounty offered by officials or even a run-of-the-mill criminal gang. It was some sort of hunting profile. High price for high risk. Dane was a hunter after all. And in another world where there was no inheritance to keep Noah comfortable, he imagined such numbers could have tempted him into a similar lifestyle.

He whistled. “Damn. Who the hell funds these things?” He’d love to meet them. See what flavour of crazy rattled about in that head of theirs and how they got their hands on all that money in the first place. Perhaps they were like him, having ‘earned it’ from family.

With an upturn to his lips and a questioning quirk to his brow, Noah’s eyes flicked up to meet Dane’s. By showing him the price on Ray’s head, was Dane offering to split the cash? Probably not. It was more likely that he was testing the waters, seeing whether Noah was as accepting of murder as he was of breaking and entering, whether Noah would give the ol’ thumbs up and say, ‘go wild, kid, I won’t tell anyone if you take an extra cookie from the jar’.

“Y’know, I’m not a huge fan of your work. Usually I might get a bit self-righteous, point out what a hypocrite you are,” he mused, his tone as amicable as it had been before. His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “But if you’re doing it for money and not some creepy-ass ‘purification mission’, that’s much more understandable and not so hilarious. And since our pal Ray’s the same breed, I’m really not fussed. Do whatever. Can you just snap a pic of him dead and bail? Or do you need to haul his body somewhere ‘cause – nothing personal, man – I don’t think I’ll be helping you out with that. Places to be, y’know.” He stood up, giving his arms and legs a little shake to stretch his limbs out.

“Oh, full disclosure: Spider-Lady is Leslie Donovan. I’m thinking spouse? Sibling? Too similar in age to be his mother.” His stare pulled to Ray, noting the fierce glower the man was now sporting. “Yeah… I see. She’s a ‘seduce and destroy’ type, huh. Sucks to be you, man.” He dipped to deliver another pat to Ray’s shoulder, ignoring the explosion of colourful curses that spat from his lips in response. Rude. Evidently he wasn't looking to make friends anymore. With a shake of his head and another tut, Noah turned back to Dane and looked down at him with his hands on his hips, eager to deliver a playful chiding. “I hope you’re paying attention, Sass. This is why you should avoid murder-y women; the sex is not gonna be worth it when you’re hogtied in a tub with two random guys discussing your fate.”

He assumed that however Dane decided to murder Ray, the method would be messy. Dane just seemed like the type to be a little creative – or rather, careless. So he made to leave the room, hoping to avoid getting blood splattered all over his nice clothes.

And yet… if Ray had a gift… perhaps Noah could borrow it.

He paused. Dane hadn’t been forthcoming about his own power. The snake summoning could be useless, a pretty parlour trick that Noah couldn’t even pick up. If Noah turned on Dane and effectively saved Ray, Ray would be in his debt – though whether he’d feel inclined to honour that debt was unlikely, given his criminality and how furious he seemed at Noah for some mild ribbing. There was also the fact Ray was an even bigger unknown to consider, and he wasn’t half as interesting or entertaining as his other companion had been thus far. And could Noah be bothered to get in a scuffle now? With the police still hovering around nearby?

Noah sighed, rolled his neck and shoulders. “Though – you know how I’m the ‘cute and curious’ type – can you tell me what can he do? And I know I haven’t given you a reason to tell me anything and I’m oh-so embarrassed about that, but I’d like to circle back to my previous questions. Throw me a bone and answer one, would you?” He looked back at Dane. Tilted his head. “Do you create or collect?”



Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

Dane's ridiculous, mocking expression smoothed as he watched Nick read the phone screen; dark eyes unflinching as they observed his reaction. He was unconcerned, teasing still, and the sight of such flippant disregard coaxed one corner of his mouth into an appreciative, amused tuck. It also fluttered a budding curiosity in his chest, forcing him to wonder what Nick's life looked like, that he could be so nonchalantly desensitized. He wasn't a Hunter, Dane was certain of that now, which made the question mark penciled above him even darker and more intriguing. His own nature and the reason he was the way he was — his courting the shadows and praying for blood — had a simple, concise explanation. He'd been born to it. It was in his veins. And he'd been twisted from the get-go in order to suit it.

But what was Nick's story? He was suddenly much more interesting than he had been before. Stitching up attempted murderers and sitting idly by while they killed again — was that as shallow as the waters were? Just deep enough to dip a toe in? Or were the depths much more extensive and dark than that? Nick's eyes skipped up from the phone to meet his own and the tuck to Dane's lips curled. He wanted to skip a rock across the surface now; watch it sink and count the seconds it took to reach the bottom (if there indeed was one).

He shrugged in response to Nick's question about who funded the bounties, though he suspected the inquiry was said more in jest than with true anticipation of an answer. He pocketed the phone again and leaned back as Nick offered his opinion on Dane's "work", nodding with exaggerated sagacity at his mention of hypocrisy. Most hunters held true to the fastidious belief that Gifted were vile and irredeemable, even the ones like Grace who happened to have abilities themselves. His head dipped and he exhaled a breath through his nose, picturing with a private fondness how her eyes went so hot and steel with that compulsory rage she leveled at her own kind. At herself, somewhere deep down, he suspected. There was also the thinly-veiled contempt and disgust of those fellow hunters who thought of him little more than some leashed and muzzled dog of war; one they had all rights to put down if they had the inclination to. Or the fucking balls, he'd often spit while encouraging them to give it a try.

"I appreciate the support, Nicky. Don't you worry yourself about the clean-up." Dane's close-lipped smile parted to reveal his teeth in a gracious beam. In most cases, a picture would do for evidence of a kill. But in Dane's case, they'd probably send someone out to him. Not only because they didn't exactly trust him, but because his messes tended to need a more expert hand to make clean. "But while I don't do it for some idiotic dogma, I also don't do it for the money." Rewards were nice but most of it ended back up in the Guild's pockets one way or another. He leaned forward again, planting his elbows on his knees and plopping his face between his framing palms. "I do it because it's fun." He shot Ray another fond glance over, smiling sweetly, then laughed when Nick stood, revealed the identity of Spider Lady, and coaxed a stream of expletives from the other man.

"Such foul language, Ray!" He scoffed incredulously even as his face fell into an expression much more playfully horrified. "Oh no, don't tell me this is just some fucked-up roleplay thing you guys got going on?" His tone dropped low, made sorrowful and pensive. "All fun and games to spice things up in the bedroom?" Ray's eyes hardened impossibly further, lips pursing with what was sure to be another wave of curses, but Dane ignored him and hummed thoughtfully to himself, as if weighing his options now that he had this new information. "I wouldn't want this Leslie coming after me because I murdered her dear hubby. Wronged and widowed women are no fun." He frowned, tipping his head. "Usually. And on the other hand... if she just really fucking hates you... do I really want to deprive her of killing you herself? Golly, this feels so personal now." He sighed, torn by the moral conundrum.

He was saved from his trifling mulling by Nick's cute curiosity. The man had started to leave, leaving Dane to his own devices — which was somewhat disappointing — but he'd turned back. He lifted his eyes to the other man's lingering presence in the bathroom doorway, watching the tip to his head as he inquired about Ray's abilities and, once again, his own. He inwardly chuckled, imagining Nick wanted to be prepared in case Dane botched the whole assassination and ended up endangering them both.

"Our friend here can make people obey. Not certain if it has to be a verbal command or if he can just think it..." His gaze flickered to Ray, a brow raised curiously, offering a moment for the man to provide an answer. He didn't. Dane, unbothered, looked back to Nick. "But he has to be touching them with his hands." He lifted his palms and wiggled his fingers performatively. "He could tell me to kill you and, as much as I think you're an A-OK dude, I'd be compelled to do so." Dane had heard the stories. Ray usually made quick work of the Hunters that'd tried putting him down. Setting them upon one another like frenzied dogs. Having them walk themselves off roofs or into traffic. It was always a mess.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he contemplated shutting down the probing about his own Gift again. But this time it wasn't with irritation that he considered it, only a cautious interest of his own. Again he had to wonder what it mattered how his ability worked. Asking one time was curiosity, but asking again was an insistence that begged examination. "And I suppose since we're becoming so chummy..." He'd throw Nick his bone. He was curious to see what he'd do with it. "I create."

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

CW: references to suicide and self-injury


Though a little concerning to hear Dane hunted because he enjoyed it (yikes, poor guy obviously needed therapy), Noah ultimately decided he couldn’t judge him too harshly. He could somewhat understand the appeal; he liked a fight too! There were times he craved the feeling of warm blood freckling his face, of his pulse thundering and knuckles burning, his breath coming out in pants as he wrestled a firm body to the ground. But the killing itself… He could take it or leave it. He absolutely would kill if the situation called for it (no matter how much he liked a person, who they were, how young or old – they could all be buried if he felt they were a threat to his lifestyle, and that one time he didn’t, didn’t count; there was a single exception to his rule, apparently), but he’d rather just… not. He could agree that the pre-murder, the struggle, the higher stakes if both parties were capable and knew it was life or death, could be fun. But his opponent needed to be fiercely fighting it. Needed to be giving him everything they had. Otherwise, it was just depressing. And whether they fought or not, when their pulse stopped, the fun stopped, because then came the essential clean-up and he couldn’t afford a single step of that process to go awry.

The real shame of it all was that Dane was killing gifted. Noah very much needed them alive to have his particular brand of fun with them and didn’t appreciate the thought of someone depleting that resource, taking them from him. Though, it occurred to him that maybe with enough time and bonding he could find a way to nudge Dane into being a run-of-the-mill serial killer. Human victims only. Sate his bloodlust without affecting Noah’s good times. But he could already imagine Dane's brows flashing up to his hairline, shaking his head at him like he was insane – like he was being unreasonable – and declaring that the gifts were core to why he enjoyed it in the first place. That they made it a challenge.

He sighed inwardly, tempted to pout. Then came the news of Ray's gift and Noah's annoyance plummeted into despair.

“Oh, Sassy-Pants,” he groaned. “You know I wanted to hang out with someone with mind control. I wish you would’ve lied to me.” He didn’t have any grand plans for it. Really, he only wanted to mess around – tell people on the street to do silly things like put their shirt on backwards or call up their boss and quit their job. Harmless little pranks. (Though, maybe later, once the initial novelty wore off and he understood the fundamental ins and outs, he might have been tempted to do some experimentation that wasn’t quite as… innocuous. He might have started giving knives out, might have tested just how much – if at all – a person could resist orders if their lives and loved ones were involved).

He eyed Ray’s hands, his own flexing by his sides. “Do you think he would immediately tell us to kill each other? Or ourselves? Who am I kidding – of course he would.” Especially now that Noah had carelessly pondered it aloud and put the idea in his head. Stupid. He huffed, nearly ran his hand through his hair, only to stop himself as he remembered the state of his gloves. He glared at their tub-bound captive. “Ray. Buddy. Respectfully? You suck. We could’ve had so much fun together.” They really could have. If Dane hadn’t been there, hadn’t revealed the bounty on his head…

It was too late to get rid of Dane now, Noah decided. No matter what Noah decided to do, Ray wouldn’t trust him – would probably trust him less if he saw him stab the guy he’d been bantering with only moments ago. Even if Noah promised that he had no interest in the bounty, Ray was unlikely to believe him or otherwise might command Noah to off himself out of spite.

He wracked his brains for another way. For some answer. A way to borrow Ray’s gift that wouldn’t endanger himself. It was impossible to know when Noah’s own gift would kick in – whether he’d only need to be commanded or whether he’d need to complete the command first. It would be fine if Ray’s order was to kill Dane; Noah would do so and afterwards the gift would be free for him to use. Simple. But there was a chance Ray would tell Noah to kill himself, or he’d tack on the command to do it after he’d killed Dane.

What if Noah asked Dane to tie him up? That way, if Ray told him to hurt himself, maybe he wouldn’t be able to do it? Ah… but if his hands and legs were tied, he’d probably start slamming his head into the tiles or something. He’d need to be fully bubble-wrapped. Would a duvet and rope work? But then – would he somehow be able to smother himself? Damn. It was too easy to think of ways to injure himself. He’d need to be fully strapped down in a padded room if he truly wanted to avoid the risk, and even then, he didn't know whether the orders would eventually wear off.

Noah perked suddenly, eyes sparking as he snapped his fingers. “Oh! Do you have any spawn with Leslie? Kids, I mean. Ones with similar gifts?” It was Noah’s preferred theory; that genetics played a role in the manifestation of powers. Though he dreaded the prospect of having to coax gifts from brats who’d undoubtedly make it more difficult than it needed to be, it could be the perfect compromise. Ray could die; Dane would be happy. Noah could have gifts; Noah would be happy. And Ray wasn’t exactly a spring chicken; his kids could be as old as twenty, maybe even as old as Noah if Ray had been particularly reckless in his youth. But looking at him – at his curled lip and narrowed eyes, a sarcastic taunt almost visibly on the tip of his tongue – Noah deflated again, expression distinctly unimpressed. “Thought not. No offence, mate, I don’t think you’re destined to be called ‘daddy’ by anyone.”

Mind control powers were out of his reach for another day, but he comforted himself with the possibilities of Dane – Dane who could create! There was still fun to be had, though Noah couldn’t imagine him cheerfully handing his gift over. And would he attack Noah once he knew he was gifted? For some hunters that was the only excuse they needed. Dane himself admitted he hunted for the fun of it above all else. Would he see Noah as a fun little challenge? Someone he could happily murder without needing a cash prize as motivation?

Noah was willing to risk it.

He turned to face him with a heavy sigh. “This is so upsetting. My entire day is ruined. Can you make that rat again to make me feel better? Just to keep me entertained while you deal with our mutual friend – a little ‘thank you’ for stitching you up.” His dismayed countenance abruptly fell away as he shimmied his shoulders, stepping closer with an inviting smile. “Or maybe you could have it nip me for being annoying. It might snap me out of this despair, like a pinch to wake me from a bad dream.” Another step. He cupped his hands, holding them out to Dane and staring expectantly, forgetting to blink as much as he should. “I promise I’ll be gentle with it.”


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

((CW: Blood and straight-up homicide, but I kept it pretty brief))



Dane couldn't help but feel there was something he was missing. An essential piece of information he'd overlooked. A misplaced puzzle piece that kept a picture from falling in place. Though his reaction was undoubtedly hammed up, Nick seemed a bit despaired about Ray's gift. Very interested to see it in action and perhaps a bit disappointed about the circumstances surrounding its owner. Dane offered him a sympathetic pout, though the mocking expression was a little weak, colored as it was by his own skepticism.

Nick wanted to play around with mind control, sure, he could understand that, but his inquiries made it sound like he was really considering giving Ray a chance. Which was a bit more dangerous and reckless than even Dane could permit. All for a little bit of fun? Did Ray have kids? And then he wanted to play with one of Dane's rats? Be purposely nipped? Dane wondered if Nick was the opposite of a Hunter — some Gift-loving nut. Perhaps a fanatic who studied, documented, and worshipped them. Some twisted Steve Irwin-type who went around testing the waters of Gifted and waiting for the day they killed him. He had admitted to having enthusiasm in spades, but this enthusiasm was shaping up to be a bit... odd.

Nick approached him, unblinking eyes inviting and hands cupped expectantly, waiting to be given what he asked for. Dane's gaze flitted about his face searchingly, then dropped to his hands, mouth parting around a question he just couldn't begin to form. Eventually, he gave a small, incredulous scoff and lifted his eyes back to the man's face. "You're kinda a freak, aren't you?" Dane stood and coaxed Nick back, essentially shooing him out of the bathroom and into the hall. "You're weirding me out. You'd weird my rats out. I'll think about it." He started to close the door, offering his companion an amused and confounded grin. "I'll be just a minute. Gonna freshen up."

With a small shake of his head, Dane clicked the door shut in its slightly-busted frame and turned back to his tub-bound acquaintance. He stepped back across the bathroom and seated himself again on the toilet, leaning over with his forearms across his thighs and fingers laced in front of him. With his gaze trained thoughtfully on his hands, he took a stretching moment to hum absently to himself, hardly aware of Ray's unfriendly eyes boring into his skull. Finally, with a sharp inhale, he brought his gaze to the other man's with a curious, imploring tip to his head. "Hey... what do you think is that guy's deal?" His gaze flitted toward the door. His tone was light and edged with tease, as if the pair of them were simply old buddies talking a bit of dirt on a shared acquaintance. "Something's up, amirite? Kinda weird, yeah?"

No comment. After a moment, Dane chuckled. Fine.

"What are you, Ray, an XL? You have clothes here? What's your shoe size? Is this your place or one of Leslie's more... secretive spots? Perhaps where she brought her boyfriends while you were away on jobs?"

Radio silence. Ray only stared at him, dark eyes brimming with unbridled loathing. Jaw clenching hard with disdain. Then the man took a deep breath and spit, unblinking and emotionless as Dane flinched away.

His interlaced fingers wrung themselves bruisingly before lifting to wipe the spittle from his face, eyes slipping slowly closed. He sighed with exaggerated remorse, then stood. "Gotta say, I kinda preferred you when you were mean and chatty. This silent surliness is so boring." Though the words themselves were teasing, his voice lacked any trace of the misplaced levity it had before. Ray lifted his chin under Dane's cool scrutiny, his eyes icy and hard — trying so hard, Dane imagined, to be unafraid. It was a shame. Tough guys could sometimes be fun to pick apart but... Ray didn't strike him as the type. And to be honest, Dane couldn't be assed. It was only a matter of time before the cops came sniffing about anyway.

So with little ceremony — silently thanking Leslie for the convenience of the whole bathtub situation — Dane pulled a blade from his jeans, flicked it open, and brought the edge of it across the other man's throat. Watched intently as Ray's eyes widened, failing to remain composed as the steel bit into him. Blood sprayed in a pretty spatter across Dane's bare chest, then became a less dramatic gurgle down Ray's own neck and torso. Dane nudged him to lay in the basin of the tub and gave him a friendly pat, then withdrew to assess himself once more in the bathroom's spotty mirror.

While Ray bled out noisily in the tub — gargling in little, pained gasps, his body shuffling and knocking against its sides — Dane splashed at his face again, cleaning away the disgusting, lingering scent of spit. He dipped a pinky in the blood gathered on his knife and drew a cutesy little crimson heart in the corner of the mirror — for Leslie — then wiped the blade clean. Then washed his hands, dried them on his pants, and stepped toward the bathroom door, calling nonchalantly over his shoulder. "I'll come back when you're camera-ready, darling."

He pulled the door open and slipped out, clicking it shut behind him and casting a curious gaze about the hall. He wondered if Nick had taken the chance to skedaddle — it wouldn't be surprising. It was always smart to slip away before the murder. Deniability and all. But then again... something about his companion's inviting smile and expectant eyes... made Dane somehow unsurprised when he found him.

"Hey, Nicky." He smiled sweetly, casting a quick glance at the crimson speckled tellingly across his own chest. When he lifted his eyes again, he raised a placating hand, nodding with exaggerated apology. "Sorry for the mean words before, that was... uncalled for. Ray and I had a chat. He didn't think you were a freak and I take back what I said." He huffed and dropped his shoulders, tilting his head with a sad, remorseful jut to his lip. "Forgive me?"

He perked. "I've decided I'll make it up to you. Show you a real treat. Far better than some rat." Dropping into a crouch — slowly and carefully, a bit too aware of the persisting stiffness in his calf — Dane placed both palms on Leslie's blood-stained carpet and bit his lip. The summoning that bloomed beneath his palms as he stood was quick and made to look simple, despite the complexity of the resulting beast. It was a well-practiced one and Dane knew the dog's anatomy like the back of his palm. Could probably summon her in his sleep. "This is Snowcone!"

The Tibetan mastiff, large and muscular, with a thick, fluffy coat that Dane never had to shear, appeared to shake off the shimmering gleam that brought her to life. Her eyes were dark, far more intelligent than any other creature at Dane's disposal. She stood on strong, thick legs, the top of her bulky head nearly even with her human's hip. Dane lifted his hands performatively, glowing with pride.

Snowcone lifted her head toward Nick, nose raised and trembling on the air as she breathed in his scent and sized him up; tail sifting slowly behind her. There was the coppery, unmistakable tang of blood permeating throughout the apartment, which immediately perked her hackles, but then Dane crouched beside her and threw an arm across her neck, pulling her against him in a playful jostle. Letting her know they were among "friends". Her entire body gave a fierce wag as she swiped a tongue in his direction, which he flinched from with a quiet chortle. "Who's a good girl? You're a good girl! Yes, you are! The best girl!"

She snorted and Dane mussed a hand over her fluffy ears as he stood, shooting Nick a smug and very self-pleased grin. "Well, this cheer ya up? Snow's the best I got. She can nip if you really want, but I wouldn't advise it." He gave the dog's side a hearty pat and then turned toward the bedroom. "I'm gonna raid Leslie's closet and then dip." As he stepped down the hall toward the one room he hadn't yet explored (or ruined), Snowcone cast him a forlorn look over her shoulder, ears perked and listening. Then she turned to appraise Nick again, settling on her haunches and tipping her head expectantly, as if waiting for a cue from the man on how she should behave.



OOC: Sorry this is a rambly mess lmao. If I moved Noah around too much or if you think he'd realistically bounce, lemme know haha. Or, y'know, if I should change anything else~ Feel free to godmod Snowcone. She's such a good, intelligent summon that she basically acts like any other (very well-disciplined) dog.