It was Stitch?s favorite kind and favorite time of day: Gray, blustery, and nearing twilight. The temperature was more on the chilly side than his ideal evening, but it would suffice. He strolled alongside the jester, offering his two cents for the conversation at hand. That is, whatever topic was brought up, be it at random or following a significant train of thought. It wasn?t until they came upon a building in the West End that he brought their adventure to a stop.

A narrow seven story, boarded up building. It could?ve been decaying right in front of them. The jackal shoved his hands into the pockets of torn jeans as the place was considered behind the curling gray smoke of a cigarette. Okay, so MOST of the windows were either boarded or broken; several looked like a brick wall had been made behind their glass. Rust and mold stains reached down the dilapidated outside beneath gutters or the ramshackle fire escape. No doubt it was home to eighty different kinds of vermin and who knew how many of each kind. A measly two areas seemed to evade the rot: the stairwell accessible from the outside and a portion of the top floor. Well, not to say that what could be seen of one room was particularly attractive, but it was lived in.

?I fink i?s qui?e discouragin?,? he said with a grin, still admiring the disgusting thing. ?If?n we knock ou? all th? walls ?cept for th? suppor? beams in those four floors,? he indicated numbers three through six with the index and middle fingers now clutching the cigarette between them, ?we?ll ?ave qui?e a bi? o? room. Th? firs? n? secon? floors cin stay like tha?. Th? top floor?s where me apar?men?s a? n? there?s anover decen? sized one, jus? go?a be cleaned up.?

Slit pupils turned back on his friend beneath brows that had inched up. A silent request for his thoughts.

A burst of air shot out of his nostrils at the smack. A snort. With furrowed brows, he followed as the jester advanced on his royal pile of... broken building. "Well tha's th' poin' ye li'le girl. I' is MY 'ouse--errr...Buildin'." Was it? Or was he squatting? Who knew. Really, who cared? The place was pleasantly ignored, just like a bum taking a piss on a park bench.

The only response that the broken door got was a yawn as the threshold was crossed. While the monochromatic creature explored and inspected, Stitch busied himself with smoke rings even as the variety of four-legged things scampered past. When the verdict was announced, his eyes lowered again and he jerked his head to the side. "There's a staircase in 'ere..kin'a screwy an' we migh' mee' our untimely deafs... Or there's one separa'e tha' ye cin see th' column of from ou'side," a fraction of a second allowed him to rethink that entire sentence, wondering if it made any sense. A roll of his shoulders and the thought washed away.

So, off they went to the separate staircase. There was a door to the outside and one to the inside. Both were kept locked: the door giving access to the outside bolted on the inside and the one to the lobby chained and padlocked. The obstacles were removed and they entered the concrete space reminiscent of an elevator shaft; windowless and dark.

Dark. Not just can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face-dark, but "Wow, are the walls and stairs painted black?" kind of dark. That little tid-bit was discernible by the single light bulbs hanging on the bottom side of each flight of stairs. Each had it's own color, but green was the most recurring. First, the eerie green glow. Then a deep red. After that, a black light, and so on. "Wa'ch ou' fer th' was'e bin, ma'e," was muttered over his shoulder as a door was shouldered open two floors up. Hopefully the jester wouldn't run into it and send the entire thing tumbling down the steps, discarded drawings left to litter the room.

They entered a hallway, equally as dark and foreboding. An old fashioned switch meant to be pressed in was put to use with the pound of a fist. A dull ceiling light spasmed to life and cast a yellowish glow over the space below. To their left was unkempt mahogany railing where the main staircase zigzagged. The jackal took up a wary lean on the dusty banister and with a flick of his talon, sent ash fluttering to it's doom. He pointed to the three doors, unopened for an indefinite amount of time.

"N' each o' those're offices. Upstairs looks like i' migh'a been th' same fing an th' res' er apar'men's. Though, I'm finkin' o' usin' th' sixth floor one un'er mine n' makin' i' a lof'," he mused aloud. Just thought he'd throw it out there and probably to no one in particular. It was likely that his cohort was already running through each of the rooms.

It had been nearly two months since the wrecking crew had come and gone. The junk had been cleared, as were several walls on floors five and six. The place looked like a warehouse, now.

The jackal stood with arms folded, observing the room with little division that was the fifth story. Brows knit as he considered the space, applying a certain plan to that very area and measuring how workable it was. A single steel chair was bolted to the floor, alone in the vast space. Strategically placed away from any window, not that one could see out of them anyway. It was a start, no?

Ears perked up and he turned his gaze on the entering jester. Pierced brows lifted before he turned back to the dark room.

"Took ye long enough. Tha' crew took forever.. Fackin' slackers. This should do nicely, I fink. We'll add to i' o' course. Tha' seven 'undred fee' o' razor wire'll fi' in 'ere no problem. An' tha' surprise fing ye still 'aven' shown me, too, aye?" He peered toward his friend with narrowed eyes; expectantly.

It had been several days since the Chimera had been put to use and not even on the victim it was intended for. Stitch now spent most of his days caring for Daisy, usually dreaming up excuses to go in to see the perfect mix of polar bear, arachnid and squid in her sense-proof room. Then, he'd make a trip to the inn.

This was the second time he'd arrive and soon find his best friend's son shortly afterward. Stitch was many things: insane, volatile, rude, crude, inconsiderate, and a general di*khead, but eat babies? He certainly did not. Not this one, anyway.Perhaps it was the black he wore, maybe the messy hair and untied shoes, or possibly the piercings that any normal five year old wouldn't have. They were only present in the establishment for a few moments before the jackal had taken his leave and invited the child to accompany him with the promise of a bridge piercing much like his own.