March 9, 2015

Fin had decided it was time for another night time adventure into the streets of West End. He felt like doing something destructive, even if it was a passive sort of destruction. It still helped to perform some tiny bit of good in the world and that helped to lighten the heavy feeling that had taken up permanent residence in his chest. He sometimes felt that if he was cracked open, nothing would be found but a negative space, a black hole where his heart used to be. Hijinks like this helped to distract him, soothe him, lift him out of the shadowy purgatory of the heartbroken. They had met at the Blind Pig as before, shared a few drinks and then meandered outside to wend their way through the dark and chilled streets. It was an overcast night, the lights from the city reflected in the opaque sky and things seemed a little brighter than usual. It was easier to judge alleyways for vacancy, search for the gang symbol that they sought to cover. They were quiet for the most part, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves.

Ketch was much as he had been last time they went on this sort of adventure: plain black, nondescript hoodie with a few tell-tale paint blotches, threadbare around the elbows and fraying cotton threads around the sleeves, thumb poked through a hole in one of them. Dark-rinse jeans. Boots were always a requirement. Tonight they were black as well. Wisps of hair answering the wind in seven different directions. Scrub of two-week's overgrowth itching his jawline. He'd have made a good hipster had he not looked so decidedly un-emo with a cigarette clenched in a field of gleaming white teeth like a madman. His smile was whiskey-greased and loose as he readjusted the pack he carried over his shoulder. Folded within: his latest stencil endeavor, 8 cans of paint, 1 can of spray adhesive, matches, lighter fluid, whiskey and some ticket stubs he'd forgotten about. Did he know where they were going? Didn't really matter. His gait was free-wheeling and he let Fin be the rudder.

Almost all of Fin's clothing fell into the category of non descript, as well as lived-in and comfortable. He didn't have nearly the varied wardrobe that Ketch did (even though he felt free to borrow from it at will) and all his clothes bore the whips and scorns of time. Ketch's laissez-faire attitude was starting to transmute itself to the oft-sullen Scot and he glanced aside at his friend, lips twitching. "Is everyone growin' a beard for the spring?" he muttered as if the idea were abhorrent. And if he ever dressed like a hipster, Fin would punch him in the mouth. Right in the mouth! "I think ye still ha' bits o' food in it." Heathen.

Well, that certainly wasn't saying much for Ketch's wardrobe, and if things continued as they were with Fin helping himself freely to his closet and drawers and Sabine managing to steal every other shirt, he truly might be tempted to take Lucy up on her offer of shopping. He did not think she was the type to put him in hipster clothing, thus saving him from a fated fist from his friend. Though if Fin punched him in the mouth, he ought know well enough by now that he'd be getting an equal or worse return. "Hm?" Slanting a gaze across to Fin; it'd previously been fixed upon another alleyway farther down. "Is everyone growing a beard?" turning the question back upon Fin, and then musing. "I'll bet Helena could grow a fierce beard." He felt like they'd already had that conversation. "Nah, just been lazy. Maybe scared to use my razor." A hand rose to touch the growth. "Breakfast, lunch or dinner? Can you tell?"

Ketch should definitely allow Lucy to take him shopping. She wouldn't put him in filthy hipster clothing, she would make him look less like he slept in the clothes that he donned every day. Or maybe Fin was sleeping in them and putting them back on the hangers the next morning? It sounded demented enough that the Scot could be a likely culprit. What was a little fist fight between friends? Clearly, the rough housing pair didn't mind a few punches to the mouth here and there. He cracked a laugh at the Helena comment - if they'd mentioned it before, Fin couldn't remember so that made Ketch funny all over again. Lucky for Ketch. His own stubble was no more than a few days old but now he touched a fingertip to his chin speculatively. He should look like the barbarian Ketch accused him of being. "Shall I grow m'hair long, a thick beard an' look like a real Scot again?" looking askance to the other man. Then a brow arched and the other dipped down. "Scurt o' yer razor? Why? Ha' ye let it go rusty?" Fin snorted. "I will lend ye m'own." It was a straight razor, the older style like barbers used to use on their customers. "Make sure it be freshly sharpened an' oiled." Then he looked to Ketch again, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I could help ye, if ye be too afeared to do it yerself." Smirk.

Ketch did in fact sometimes sleep in his clothes, roll right out of bed, shuffle to the coffee maker, stare mutely out the window until caffeine hit the "on" switch in his brain, and then walk right out the door. Or else he slept naked. The living was easy, man, when you did it simply. Ketch brushed lightly at the growth to unsettle any epicurian hangers-on there in case the Scot had been serious, and then he turned an equally ponderous look back upon Fin. Even went so far as to turn around and walk backwards, framing Fin's face between the angles of index fingers and thumbs. "Not necessary, really. You manage to look like a filthy Scot even when you're freshly shaven." He turned around again, hiding a smirk. "Thought maybe you used mine in your nether regions or something. Just to be a dick." And then a squint. "I'm not 'afeared' of using one. You just want an excuse to put a sharp blade to my neck. Then you'll cry wolf and say nicking me was an accident." Sharp-eyed now as they rounded a corner.

Fin had been introduced to the idea of pajamas by a woman and generally only employed them when he was sleeping next to a woman of his acquaintance such as Lucy or Taneth. Otherwise, he too preferred to sleep in the buff because it was more comfortable, especially in places with controlled climates. The man strode ahead and spun to walk backward - a strange quirk of his, Fin had noticed, when they were out and about. Was just waiting for the day he walked right into something and Fin would never let him live it down. Ketch was shot the finger and shoved just before the rounded the corner. "I had no' thought o' tha' but now tha' ye say it, the idea has merit." He'd have to remember that for the future. "Well, if ye be fool enough to trust me wit' a blade near yer throat, I canno' be held responsible for what comes after." He was grinning and glancing across the way when he clapped a hand to Ketch's shoulder, nodding to a building across the way. It was just ahead on the corner of the block, an old neon sign gutted and the letters no longer legible hanging from one side like a faded and forgotten memory. He could see one of the symbols near an entry that was missing a door. Fin glanced back and headed across the street.

It was possible Ketch might one day stumble into a signpost or building if he was particularly stoned or drunk. But otherwise, he had an innate sort of sonar that kept him very in tune with his surroundings. Perks of not being entirely human. Fin gave him the bird and shoved him and Ketch smiled sweetly in return before hooking an elbow against the man's ribcage. "Merit and repercussions. Sabine would be beside herself, clawing the walls trying to decide whether to scream or lick up the blood. You'd get swallowed by your massive guilt complex at having set her off. I'd have to chase your mopey ass down and try to convince you it wasn't your fault. Which it surely was. It sounds exhausting. Better not." All of this discourse in spite of the fact that he'd undoubtedly trust the Scot with a blade along his neck. He stood to lose just as much, at least in the way of free clothes and a place to stay. They were symbiotic that way. Go figure. The hand clap to his shoulder did not make him flinch, he just shifted in the implied direction and cast a thoughtful look over what was to be the evening's canvas.

The likelihood of Ketch being quite stoned or drunk while in Fin's presence was pretty high, all things considered, so Fin would continue to wait for his day in the sun. To sit astride that moral high horse that belonged only to those that walked forward instead of backward. Cue disdainful sniff. A grunt to this scenario painted so bluntly by Ketch's forked tongue. "Tha' no' be how I see it goin'." He was envisioning something that shut Sabine up via disappearing clothing and he let that distract him a moment or two. But perhaps it wasn't meet to slice the hand that fed him so the idea of slitting Ketch's throat in twain was discarded silently. The black yawning entrance was something that made Fin's back itch, right between his shoulder blades, and he didn't like how vulnerable it felt to be near the empty doorway without at least seeing what lay directly beyond it. Pulled a flip knife from his pocket and shicked it open, holding it close to his forearm so it wasn't immediately visible. Was Ketch going to stay outside or join him in exploring?

Disdainful sniff met a scoff, and it was a noisy union that had him laughing quietly, mostly air, because he, too, was steadily awarding more caution to their surroundings. Ketch studied the entrance, then looked to each side of the building and up. Did he have weapons on him? Absolutely, but his preferred weapon was and always would be his hands in a hundred unfolding variations, and the way Fin looked at the entrance had him defaulting to that rather than fooling around with his knives. Those were for premeditated targets and disguise. Of course Ketch would be joining him inside. If there was exploring to be had, he was a virtual Magellan this night, though he did look aside to Fin and speak low, "Are we looking for something specific or just jacking around?"

The building was squat, its neighbors on both sides taller by a story or more. It was clear that it had been vacant for some time, judging by the wear and tear evident on the fa?ade. Mortar eroded where it was exposed beneath crumbling stucco that was used as a cheap repair method some years ago. There were pock marks that could be the result of bullets or something else entirely, knowing how Rhydin could surprise. The hinge plates on the empty door frame were long rusted and would no doubt have to be pried out and replaced. Windows on the second floor were completely broken and shattered across this side, most likely on the other, as well, if Fin had to guess. It was the perfect victim for their late night artistic bint but it could also be housing transients and vagrants and other, less savory individuals. Fin didn't mind the homeless at all, thought it was good they find a shelter rather than face the elements unprepared. However, there were others in the West End that might find such an empty structure useful and maybe the Scot was being paranoid but was fully aware that to be seen covering up gang signs put a target on their backs. No need to be more reckless or stupid than was necessary.

"More to be certain tha' there be none inside, layin' in wait." That they weren't going to get snitched on or that someone wasn't going to take the opportunity to prey upon the two lunkheads outside. Fin sidled up to the doorway to peer around it, not wanting to make a giant target of himself silhouetted in the frame. Squinted but couldn't see much further inside, up to three or four feet. Ears strained to make out any noises but there was nothing beyond the distant scuttling that could be a rat or some small animal. With a nearly silent grunt, he slipped around the doorframe quickly and pressed his back to the wall just next to it, not caring what Ketch thought of his precautions; if he thought the Scot was crazy or being a little overzealous. Once inside, his eyes adjusted to the darker shadows and he could make out some things here and there. Garbage and debris littered the ground - things to trip over, things to make noise underfoot. Stealth would take effort. There were large wooden spools sitting forgotten against the far wall and lumps of fabric in between showed spots where people had bedded down though they were empty at the moment. Seemed empty, anyway. Papers and broken glass were everywhere and old chairs sat in random points rather than gathered around a central space. This lower level was empty as far as Fin could tell but he'd rely on Ketch's fancy super senses to confirm that.

In a place like West End, odds were an equal split on an empty building harboring transients or less savory individuals. Ketch usually assumed the worst, though there were no apparent signs of anything amiss as they approached the entrance. ?Laying in wait,? he echoed with a curl of a smile as Fin flattened himself against the wall, but he bit a comment back for the man?s extreme caution. Ketch stepped lightly inside and to the opposite edge of the door frame, going still to listen and wait for his eyes to adjust. Nothing, nope, not at the moment as far as he could tell. Eyes took in the detritus of the misplaced and left behind, the large wooden spools, shadows collected as thick as the layers of grime on the windows, paper and shards of glass. Given that the neon sign outside was gutted much as the inside, he was having a hard time figuring out what this building had been in its former life. Too small to be a factory. Maybe a storage facility? A poke against his back was revealed to be a light switch, and instead of flipping it, he followed the exposed housing to the ceiling, crunching glass underfoot as he trailed the wires to a breaker box on the opposite wall. He set his backpack gently to the floor and swung the door to the panel open, flicking his Zippo to life only to reveal a disaster inside. Wires snaking everywhere, tangled upon themselves, frayed at the ends, corroded in places. He thumped the panel closed with a disgusted grunt and then went still when a muffled thud sounded from beyond the back entrance. Motion; a body. No. Plural. Bodies. Just outside the door. A tremor ran down his forearms, stood the hairs on end. Not in fear, but with the rush of adrenaline. He cast a quick glance across the distance to Fin before stepping a half foot closer in the direction of the door. Still listening warily.

Fin might be overly cautious but he was still alive, wasn't he? Most likely by the grace of whatever deity existed, if any, but still. Principle and all that. Leaning against the wall, he was starting to relax because it didn't sound like anyone else was here - no movement that he could see, no noises coming from upstairs that he could pick out and was about to push off the wall when Ketch got all...curious. Really fucking loud and nonchalant and curious like he was taking a stroll in the park rather than skulking around a dark building. Crunching glass and kicking a can and scuffing his feet along as if he were trying to make noise Fin scowled at him unseen because the other man was hunting for something and...Christ. Flicking his lighter to look at something. Why didn't he just go out into the street and shout that they were here? Asshole.

He considered throwing something at his friend when he heard a noise and froze. Exhaled slowly as his heart rate kicked up, energy flooding his limbs.
Scuffle. Footsteps. The ring of metal pinging and bouncing on concrete. A voice. Voices. Low and murmured and rough - male. Moving closer. Then there was the push of...something; not a door but something blocking the entry way on that side. Ketch was moving toward him and Fin slid a sidelong glance his way before fixing on the four figures that entered. Slowly, so slowly so as not to be noticed in the dark, Fin's free hand sought the hilt of his dirk at his side - he'd taken to carrying it with him all the time.

The figures were silhouetted against the door a moment so that Fin could count them, note their varying sizes - one large, two medium, one slight. Backlit, he couldn't see any of their faces but he thought one of the voices sounded...well, it nagged at him. Not familiar in that way but he thought he'd heard it before. That was filed away as he watched them move, how they carried themselves - relaxed. Hadn't seen the other pair of trespassers yet. They were talking amongst themselves, voices low and he couldn't hear the words at first, strained to make out anything familiar. They moved farther into the space, heading for the stairs to go up to the second floor. They were going to look for something? Talking about a man. A missing man, he thought. Up the stairs they went to do whatever it was they were going to do.

Fin, being the nosy Scot that he is, let out a slow breath and then glanced to Ketch and gestured his head in the direction of the stairs, arched a brow. Was he interested in playing spy?

The interlopers were certainly human not to have noticed the presence of Fin and Ketch standing there still among the shadows. Incautious bastards, and proud, too, it sounded like from the strains of conversation Ketch could hear. Probably used to having claim on this building and not expecting anyone else to breach such a clearly marked territory. They should have known better; too many kinds of dangerous in this city for any one of them to hold court for long. The next beast was always less than a misstep away.

Ketch counted them off one by one, fingers ticking soundlessly over his thigh in a litany of calculations characterized by assessments of size and proportion, distance between bodies, weak points and vulnerable positioning. The hairs along his forearm rose and the skin there twitched and shivered with a familiar collection of energy that crackled like static dispersed from the base of his spine. Air moved in and out of his lungs with hardly a sound, and he tracked the mens? passage with a predatorial glint in his eye. Sidled closer to Fin and this time his steps made only a whisper of sound, as if the rubber soles of his boots simply absorbed the broken glass and debris, read the question attached to the lifted brow and hitched one shoulder up in reply. Sure? Why not? said the motion.

Ketch looked down at the Scot?s feet and then pointedly over to the wall five feet beyond them where the sediment of garbage and glass wasn?t as thick. Moved in that direction and traced his passage with a fingertip running along a seam of concrete in the wall. All the way around with pauses here and there to slowly edge a piece of litter out of Fin?s path, because he was a noisy bastard, and then around to the base of the stairs the men had disappeared beyond. At that point, he inched back beneath the well and ceded the foreground to Fin, since he was the one itching to listen in on the riffraff.

It would be advantageous if all of the interlopers were human though there was no way Fin could confirm that in any respect, not like Ketch. Arrogant pricks seemed to be even more so at night when the darkness helped to inflate their egos to twice the normal size as if they owned the nighttime terrain. Hyper awareness settled in as his kidneys started to pump the excited hormones through his bloodstream, heart beating faster to speed the process. Waiting until Ketch moved closer, Fin followed his gesture to the path along the wall and nodded, waiting to follow along behind other. A half smile flicked over his mouth as he watched Ketch solicitously remove debris from the path and even though it was a very self serving act, he found humor in it nonetheless. A mad-cap sort that didn?t favor reason or logic in its existence, the sort that birthed the yawning grin found on Death?s skeletal face.

Along the wall like church mice they moved, silent but wary. Furtively did they creep up the stairs and Fin paused halfway up the second flight with a hand held in the air; motioning for Ketch to stop. At the top was an open doorway and he swore he saw a flash of light swing across it but it disappeared just as quickly. While they were still in the stairwell and still unseen, Fin pulled his dirk slowly and stealthily from its sheath, changing the grip on his flip knife so that the blade was pointed down, held back along the edge of his forearm. One step at a time he ascended, pausing at each one see if he could catch what they were talking about. At the edge of the doorway, he stopped again and peered around the side of it to get his spatial bearings. About ten feet from the door were the men though their configuration had changed. There was an old, dilapidated sofa on which three of the men sat - the large one, one of the medium ones and the small one, the latter?s head a small curve as the owner slumped in his seat to the far right. The fourth was standing at one of the broken windows, just off to the side so as not to create a shadow visible from the outside. All of them were facing away from the door, looking out over the streets. Seemed a common meeting place and the small group was relaxed. Their guard was down.

?We?re not gonna see anything,? said the man on the left end of the couch. He lifted a bottle and swigged it upward while the smallest one looked on in contempt. ?Don?t matter,? said the one at the window without turning around. ?Maybe we?ll see something else. If someone is coming into our neighborhood, we gotta know.? That could have pertained to anything, turf wars sparked every day in ways that were invisible to the general public, but Fin wondered if maybe he?d helped inspire it by covering their symbols when and where he could. Gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling. Unable to conveniently pull a throwing blade, Fin weighed his options quickly and then stole silently into the room, just beyond the door to the stairs while pausing here and there with a keen eye to the four men in front of him. All of his senses were trained on them, tuning himself to the most subtle of nuances in case he had to fight or flee from one breath to the next. Still he moved inexorably forward - right up to the back of the couch, ducking in a very low crouch behind it. The conversation carried on amongst the unwitting prey, light banter between them covering mundane subjects with none of them the wiser until the very last second. Fin slowly rose behind the back of the couch and the one on the far right, the smallest figure, spied him with mouth open and widened eyes just before Fin?s dirk sliced neatly and efficiently across the throat of the largest man. Then all hell broke loose.