Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

[dreaming enthusiast]

There's no body, and Damien can feel his heart drop. He's... Disappointed isn't quite the right word, displeased isn't either. He almost feels cheated. Years ago, the ex-cop was prevented from seeing Michael's body. Both in the morgue and at the funeral. He didn't get to say goodbye, and any clues his friend might have wanted to pass on in his last moments were lost when he was buried. If the Sirens were involved back then, and now again with Delilah, she could have provided a chance to glean something. The same stands even if the two cases aren't involved. He'd assumed, given last night, that Cade had been the one to discover the woman even before paramedics and bring her into the Black Dog's possession. Yet those hopes are dashed.

He doesn't thank Kaden when he unlocks the phone, instead taking it from the table to look over the photos once more. With the glasses on the details are clearer, but they don't provide much value. There's no concrete indication to suggest where they were taken, or at the very least in what kind of building, though in one a carpet is peaking from underneath Delilah. An ugly, musty, nondescript dark green abomination.

Another feeling rises up - a cold anger at the cruelty of sending these images. Damien shouldn't be surprised that such a thing would happen in the criminal world, but the brutality of keeping a body hostage seems low even for those outside the law. Especially when it's apparent she meant a lot to Finch.

"I'm sorry," his voice is quiet as he shoots the other man a quick look over the rim of the glasses, "All things considered, you're handling this well. Better than yesterday."

Better than I would in your place.

Damien has to reign in his sympathies. Remain professional.

"Where is this 'there' that we're going to? Who is this 'queen bee'?" despite the questions, Damien is already putting on his outerwear, "Also... I know I said you're doing better, but do you want me to drive?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch scoffs lightly at Damien's attempts at sympathy. There's real tenderness in his voice, but that makes it worse.
This man knows where to hurt him if he needs to.

"Hudson valley," he says, picking up his coat. It's one of the bushy ones that have the hood lined with fur. Remarkably unimpressive unless Kaden was in the Russian Mafia, but it's warm and he likes it.
"She's sort of the head leader. She taught me about poisons and toxins and how to wreak havoc on the human body. She's a delightful woman."

They take the stairs down to the hangar nestled under the building.
"Don't be ridiculous," he says, holding the door open for Damien to pass through.
"I'm perfectly capable of driving."

Inside, they pass a large list of luxury cars, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, Porsches, you name it it's here.
He lingers, for a moment at the Chevrolet Camaro, sitting alone and being passed by day after day. The interior is nearly as dirty as her apartment was. The woman had no sense of organization.
On impulse he cracks the door open, takes the leather jacket hung around the driver's seat. Soft and well worn.
The cologne she wore comes off in spades and those pangs are back again.
He knocks the door shut again with his hip, taking the jacket with him.

--- Tiny time skip ---

Finch is back in the driver's seat again. It's another Mercedes, same model, same year. But this one's silver.

It's as close in similarities to it's predecessor as possible, but the settings are default and Kaden had to spend five minutes getting the seat position right.
It still doesn't satisfy him.
This isn't his car.

Well, it is. One of many. But it's not his preferred car. The leather jacket tossed in the back makes him feel a bit better about it, but it's a weak improvement.

He was going to offer Damien a chance to drive, to show good will of course, but the man offered to drive first.
It was clear to Finch from the man's expression he wasn't sure about getting into the car with him.
And now the drama queen clings to the safety handle in a way he must think is subtle.

He glances at Damien before locking his eyes back on the road.
"Stop that," he says, "it's distracting."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

If Damien had a legitimate parole officer, he'd be in deep water going outside of NYC unannounced. There's usually a whole process to attempting such a drive, of notifying the appointed official and hoping with all your being to be granted permission. Which in his case would be dubious. Yet, thanks once again to Nat, the ex-cop doesn't have to go suffer through the trouble and can simply enjoy the trip without worry on that end. He should really buy her something to show gratitude one of these days. The amount she does for him is getting ridiculous...

Last time the convict was beyond the bounds of the city was when he was in prison, but he didn't exactly get to marvel at the state's countryside behind bars. Not that he's getting much out of the view on this drive either, tense as he is with Finch behind the wheel. The memory of last evening is fresh, and Damien's eyes bounce from the road to Kaden, back and forth every couple of minutes. The fact that it's the exact same Mercedes model only worsens his apprehension.

Regardless, so far the Black Dog is doing fine, in complete control of himself and the vehicle. Plus, his arm is bound to get tired eventually. He's just debating letting go of the overhead handle when Kaden speaks up, and Damien reaffirms his grip. Mostly out of spite.

"Tough luck. You didn't let me drive, so now you have to bear with this," Damien still doesn't really trust himself to drive, but his earlier offer had been made with mutual benefit in mind more than anything. Kaden had chosen not to take it and now he was going to have to deal with his passenger's caution, "Why do you have the same car, just in a different color? Why have so many cars at all? I get that the line of work pays well, but it feels kind of... excessive."

A lot about Finch seems excessive - the poisoning, the penthouse, the fur-lined coat. For some reason, it both fits in and contradicts whatever image of the man Damien had constructed. His eyes are back on Kaden, and they stay there. It's probably wisest to let go of any preconceptions and not delve deeper, but it's difficult to stop poking. Old habits die hard for the ex-cop. One thing he is sure of is that the consigliere is living in luxury.

The topic of buying something for Natalia pops up in Damien's head once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the leather jacket in the back seat that'd been placed there earlier.

"This is a stupid question, and you don't need to answer it," Damien feels ridiculous even bringing the matter up, but Kaden seems to know fine things, and the ex-convict is aware he's in no position to rely on anyone else's input, "But what do you reckon would be a good gift for a woman?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch narrows his eyes at Damien's blatant and unapologetic attitude. The man's stamina for pettiness surely knows no bounds. Kaden's half convinced he'd like to crash again just to give the man real reason to clutch at the handle.

"I know this car, and I like it. A new one would be one more thing to compensate for." And he's already at the end of his rope in terms of newness. The routine he's come to rely on is in shambles and he must make up where he's going and what he's doing in the spur of the moment. The only constant is Damien.
It's torture.

"And some of the cars weren't mine," he adds in defense.
"Like the blue Camaro with the white stripes. And the yellow Lamborghini. Nevertheless, excess is our nature, especially in this circle. You can't afford anything remotely real so you find temporary satisfaction in things and do anything to have more. I'm aware of how little sense it makes."

And how worthless and redundant it all is. A long, long time ago he had some nonsense idea he would get his GED and become... something.
He has no real practical skills, especially then.
But he had thought about it, as far as even telling Delilah. She said she'd let him off the hook, even give him some starter money. She just said to give her a heads-up.

Obviously, he never ended up leaving.

"Reckon," Damien mutters and side eyes the ex-cop gone cowboy.
"Depends on the woman. There's jewelry, perfume, coats, dresses... But this is Natalie you're talking about because you haven't been with or known the touch of a woman in fifteen years and fourteen days and I doubt very much a married woman would appreciate gifts of such caliber."

He taps the wheel with a finger, thinking.
"I would get her an engraved pistol," he decides, and tilting his head adds, "Or something lavishly expensive for her children."

He looks at Damien. "But if I were you I would just try not to die. She'd... appreciate that, I think."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Despite Finch speaking with that matter-of-fact tone of his about the realities of his criminal circle, Damien is left with the impression the capo isn't satisfied with the status quo he adheres to. The self-awareness is commendable, but it makes the situation sound even more miserable and senseless. Not that it's any of the ex-cop's business, he reminds himself, and soon enough Finch is moving on to answering his query.

"Why did I even ask..." Damien quietly mumbles with a roll of his eyes as soon as the reply starts.

He hums, one corner of his lips raised twitching up into a grin. For some reason, Kaden sounds like he thinks he's insulting Damien. One, his opinion on the ex-convict's personal affairs doesn't really matter. And two, Damien hasn't felt the touch of a woman for longer than the proclaimed length of time and it's not a point he feels particular shame about. Not anymore.

The gangster's advice isn't wrong, though, and neither is his deduction. How does he know she's married? How does he know she has kids? Has he done a background check? The ex-cop shouldn't be surprised, but that doesn't help ease his discomfort.

"Don't mention her family, Finch," while Damien's face is set into a neutral mask, his eyes and tone reveal enough sharpness to sound like a warning, "Don't look into her private life. Montesano is involved only as an informant, through me. That's enough."

He stares at Kaden for a while longer, before releasing the overhand grip and resting his chin on his hand to look out the window at the passing greenery.

"I'll keep your suggestions in mind. They're good."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

He's more taken aback by Damien's reply than he has any right to be. He's far from freezing and having a mental breakdown that sends them into incoming traffic, but he's still surprised.

It takes him longer than it should to realize he's been unintentionally creepy, for lack of a better term.
She had a family car and a ring on her finger. He's not insane, it was a reasonable conclusion to make based on the evidence.

"Hmph."

--- Time skip ---

The greyscale blue of buildings and skyscrapers have given into trees and the odd patch of grass, yellowed by the cold weather. There's an odd silence with the din of the city quieted. In a car ride that's already been plagued by silence, it's not a welcome additional.

Fortunately, the big remote mansion comes into view, archaic and looming.
Following their namesake, old vines cling to the cracked limestone pillars and foundation. Grass has been allowed to overgrow, trespassing onto the pavement and giving the whole gothic architecture a truly wild and foreboding nature.
The dolphin fountain planted outside is dry and covered in moss.
It almost feels abandoned, dead, but Finch knows the Venus fly trap wants the fly to think that.

"Don't touch anything and don't drink anything," he says, unclipping his seatbelt and pulling the leather gloves from hell on.
"Stay where I can see you. And I'm sure I don't have to say this, but practice sexual discipline while we're here."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"You don't need to worry about me, I'll keep my guard up," Damien nods in understanding, "I assume you'll do the same. Even if you have past rapport with this woman."

A cigarette is lit the first chance he has to step out of the car, content not to have to push down his nicotine addiction any longer and to be out of the awkward silence that'd permeated the ride. Not that the destination they've arrived at promises to be much more pleasant to handle. A puff of smoke leaves the man's lips as he takes in the old building with its crumbling facade. It's beautiful, in a way, and a good front for whatever's waiting inside.

Part of Damien is truly hopeful this mansion and its mistress will be able to supply some answers, for both investigations, but he tries to temper his expectations. Because a bigger part of him is uneasy that this might just be an ambush Finch and him are willingly stepping into. Not that the ex-cop would turn around, even if that were the case.

Briefly, he's reminded of the police operations he used to take part in.

Pondering for a moment, he adds in a not necessarily friendly way, but with the air of someone going into a sticky situation where working with others might prove to be key, "If anything happens, I've got your back."

He hasn't finished his cigarette fully, but he stomps it out on the pavement anyway.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

For the first time in forever, Kaden's relieved a smoke break has interfered with the objective at hand.
It gives him a moment to survey the area.
The windows are all curtained or too smudged to see through. A gust of wind brings with it the familiar and overwhelming scent of dog feces.

He looks at Damien after that comment, tilting his head.

After a final once over of the squatting stone beast, Finch takes his handgun from the glovebox.

Damien stomping out his cigarette is their cue to move, regardless of the growing unease.

As if the location couldn't be anymore creepy, the door opens just as Kaden is about to knock.
The most drop dead gorgeous woman is there, beaming at them. She's blonde, obviously, and wearing a v neck so deep it leaves little to the imagination. Her green eyes contrast deeply with her red lips.
"Hello, how may I help you?"

"We're here to see Medusa."

The woman glances from man to man. "Do you have an appointment?"

"We're old friends."

The woman doesn't even pretend to consider, she simply steps aside.
If outside was overgrown, than inside is the unexplored wilderness. Every corner is covered in the far reaching branches of some fern or bush. It's as if they've stepped into a jungle.

"Hello, darlings."
Kaden's eyes snap up to a blur of color hiding amongst the leaves. A macaw, nesting in a branch. It stretches out it's wings, twisting it's head to look at them as they pass.

"I don't remember this place being so..."

"Ten years ago miss Wight swore off most men," the blonde assassin says, putting an emphasis on the word 'men' some people might put on the word bug.
"Now she's sworn off most people. Her preferred company are her lovely plants and her animals."

They take more twists and turns than Finch is comfortable with, and with the once familiar mansion covered in green he can't be sure of his way out. More than once the fat round body of a bee whizzes past his face.
Somehow, with an ecosystem living in her castle, the property is still relatively clean. There isn't a dead leaf or an animal dropping anywhere to be seen. How exactly do these plants survive without the sun? Despite the smells, there's almost something articial and dreamlike about it all.

The assassin stops at what appears to be the doors of a study, clasping her manicured hands in front of her. There's dirt in the crevices of her nails.

"Please hand over any weapons you may have to me for safe keeping," she says, holding out her hand.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Medusa. Damien holds back an eye-roll and instead focuses on taking in the blonde woman that opened the door. Kaden and he must have been spotted coming from outside. Doubtlessly, this place has some kind of security system. And whoever noticed their approach, decided to send her out as a greeting party specifically. Her clothes don't leave much to the imagination, and they don't leave much space to be carrying a weapon either, but the ex-convict knows from experience such a surface glance proves nothing. If what Finch said earlier is true, the Siren is the weapon herself, though he is much more concerned with whether she has a firearm or a knife. Or a needle, given the fact her boss apparently taught Kaden about toxins. His neck itches at the thought.

Hopefully, he won't have to find out.

Damien gets momentarily distracted from his worries as he steps inside, stunned at the sight. His eyes are unabashedly roaming over the place in wonder, taking in the overgrown vegetation. Just like the outside of the mansion, it's beautiful, in a way. Nostalgic too.

Mrs Kell used to have a small greenhouse. That's where she kept her birds, leaving them to fly freely between the plants and sunlight. She would have liked this place. His attention is drawn to the cry of the macaw, its colors are stunning. But Michael's mom didn't have anything this exotic, her preferences were on the humbler side. Through the tangle of plants, he catches a glimpse of parakeets chirping from the branches above. Several of them are huddled together - that's good. She used to teach the boys that such animals don't live happily if kept alone. Damien lingers for a second, staring, before picking up the pace to catch up with Kaden and their guide.

By then he has gotten his awed expression under control. Mostly because the further along the two men go, the more he is convinced Mrs Kell would not in fact like this place. There it is again. That excess. Impressive, but shallow, fake, desperately trying to mend something that requires a different kind of cure.

"Sworn off of most people, but evidently not all," he mumbles, ignoring the way the blonde had spat out the word "men".

It doesn't come as a surprise when the Siren request any weapons be handed over, but the fact he anticipated this moment doesn't make it any less unpleasant. He contemplates simply following Kaden's example, but the fact the capo hasn't seen the building in its present jungle state means he hasn't come to visit its owner in a while. Damien can't allow himself to rely on past goodwill, old friends or not. He could try and lie and say he doesn't have a gun, but that'd likely lead to a body check. He might outright refuse, but he doesn't want to start this meeting off on the wrong foot. Best to comply, or maybe a compromise can be reached.

"I mean no offense, but I don't know your boss and I don't know you," he unholsters the LC9 in one swift movement, pressing down on a button so that the gun's magazine releases. While the ex-cop holds onto that, he proffers the rest of the weapon, "I'll hand it over, but I'd appreciate it if it stays in the room with us in my line of sight. To make sure it isn't tampered with - we all have our precautions. That sound agreeable?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Once again the Siren doesn't even pretend to consider, merely squints in poorly hidden contempt. She takes their offered weapons, sans loading clips.
"She won't like you," she says, before opening the door.

It's a normal study, more or less. But it's dark, hot. If the mansion were a living thing, this is it's brain.
A few ferns remain, but nowhere near as untamed as they were outside. It's not exactly Delilah's hoarding situation, but the word kleptomaniac comes to mind. There's books, bobbles, paintings and to clash with these normal things are vials, crooked barbed plants, scalpels.
The cat clawed tables are absolutely covered.
There's only one table not covered, one filled with flowers that smell real but just can't be with the layer of dust on them.

There's something dark and warm at Kaden's foot. It's a murky blob in the shadow, wheezing and straining to move.
Finch backs away so hard he bumps directly into Damien.

Wight's an old woman, with white hair silhouette black by the roaring flame in the fire place. The jostling seems to be the only thing that alerts her to their presence.
"I thought you might come here," she says, voice pleasant and ageless as she sets aside a book and struggles from her chair to stand. Everything about her is disarming, welcoming. Her old smile, her shining eyes. She even wears a shawl, and uses a walking cane. It taps jarringly along the floor as she walks.
The children's story of Little Red riding hood comes to mind.

The grandma illusion stops at her wrinkled hands, at the nearly cat like nails breaching out from the tips of her fingers. They're painted, as if to alleviate some of their disturbing appearance, but the garish green only does the reverse.
"And you brought company."

She pours tea from a china glass pot, nails clinking and rasping on the handle in a way that makes Kaden nearly wince.
"Please sit down boys. Come in, come in."

With the thing on the floor, Finch is hesitant to move.
It cracks it's small head back, and evident by the sudden patch of pink, opens it's tiny mouth to yawn.

"Watch your step," Wright says, and somehow manages to snap her fingers with her claws.
Another shadow in the corner moves, lumbering forward, toes clacking on the wood floors.
A bloodhound, it's skin melted with age and showing it's ribs like a coat on a hangar.
It looks up at them with drooping bloodshot eyes before wrapping it's sagging muzzle around the puppy.

It whimpers being brought back to the dog bed and by the sudden chorus of little sounds Kaden realizes there's a whole litter of puppies. With a tenderness only a mother has, she tiredly but persistently licks at the pulsating blob of her offspring.

What else is hiding in the dark?

Once seated, Kaden accepts the dainty cup of tea given to him.
Whether he'll drink it or not is another thing, but the steam is welcome after the cold outside. The smell is... It's brilliant.

She doesn't pinch his cheek, thank goodness, but she does push a bony knuckle under his chin to force him to look up at her.
Even brushes a hand through his hair.
"My dear, you're still just a boy. Even after all this time."

His skin itches.

"You need to eat more. Sleep more," she says, before limping over to Damien.

She stares at him, through him.
Finch tenses when she reaches out to him, grabs him. Wright pinches his chin in her grasp, tilts his head to the side.
She makes an attempt to get into his mouth and look at his teeth, but she is only an old woman and if Damien doesn't want her to, she can't. Physically, anyway.

"You're too far grown. You're old. And you need more of everything," she says, pouring Damien a twin cup of tea.
"Who are you, dear?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Where the hell has Finch taken them?

Damien inspects the room now stood yawning before him, trying to make sense of its contents. Unlike the Black Dog's penthouse, which at least looks like what one might assume the quarters of a high-profile criminal to be, this place is unnerving, otherworldly. The ex-cop feels as if he's striding into the domain of a mad scientist, or maybe a witch. The kind that eats children. He reassures himself that he isn't a child anymore.

The body colliding with his own pulls him away from his examination, and he narrowly manages to stay in place, hands instinctively shooting out to steady Finch. The hold is brief, releasing a second later once he remembers what the gangster had mentioned - he isn't good with being touched. Regardless, Damien's eyes are on Kaden's face, searching for any telltale signs of an incoming panic attack. None so far, though the fact the other man seems to share in his discomfort makes a chill run down Damien's spine, even in the oppressive warmth.

It's then that the witch makes her presence known. She's older than her voice, older than Damien expected. A crone in every right.

As she snaps her taloned fingers Damien further notices the dogs. Is it some kind of trend in the mafia to keep pets? That's a stupid question - he can't begrudge anyone the desire to care for an animal, no matter their walk of life. Unlike Kaden's cat, though, the state of the bloodhound, as old as its owner, makes only pity rise up in the man's throat. Even its litter of small puppies looks like a melding, writhing mass in the darkness of the room.

It's probably inadvisable to venture deeper into said darkness, but Damien follows after Kaden as he goes to take a seat, stunned once Medusa walks up to the consigliere - reaching for him, treating him in an almost familial way. It takes Damien for another loop when she then turns to approach him. His muscles lock in place as soon as her hands are on his chin, mouth clenched shut against probing fingers. He feels like livestock being examined. Yet, her assessments aren't wrong, and it exacerbates his already substation unease.

Eventually, the man reigns in his nerves, cautiously opening his mouth after he's certain the Medusa's claws have retreated, "Damien Blumenthal." He states his name plainly as if it's enough to answer the question posed.

"Your place really is... something else, ma'am," He takes the proffered cup in a sign of basic politeness, intent on not taking a single sip of the aromatic tea, "If you had an inkling Finch might come to seek you out, I assume you also have a guess as to the reason."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The ghost of wright's hands singe his skin, but Damien's touch from when they careened into one another still burns, even now.
He looked at Finch then, with his grey eyes gone black in the dark. Obsidian, like Kaden's own. Every moment or two they catch the light and go gold, only to freeze over into void once more. He wonders if his own look half as mesmerizing.

Medusa gives a small bow of her silver head at Damien's comment that isn't actually a compliment. Finch is familiar enough to know he doesn't like this place, with it's twisted hallways and vines. The feeling's mutual.

The tea, however, Finch could bathe in it.

"Naturally," she says, waddling back to her chair. It's closer to the fire, as if the room isn't hot enough.
"You want to know where Delilah is. She paid me a visit, you know."

Finch's grip on the delicate teacup jostles the contents within. Wright's eyes follow the movement of the stray droplets leaking over his leather gloves.

"When?" He asks.

"Let's see here." Medusa stares into the space in front of her, as if seeing the answer in the air, counting the days.
"Well, it wasn't a week ago. She came, had tea, we reminisced. She even helped old Betty whelp. One of those puppies were in there sideways, I tell you. Woman doesn't care, just goes right in there forearm deep and grabs it like it's no big deal. Hard as nails, that woman."

The old dog, Betty, lifts her head hearing her name called. Her thin tail drums the ground, once, twice.

"What did she want?"

Wright stares at him, propping a thin elbow on the armrest to plant her chin in her palm.
"That's what I asked her. Have you ever seen that woman look lost, Kaden?"

The last night he saw her. But never before.

"She stole something, a poison of some kind, I'm sure of it. That's all the reason someone would visit me. Genevieve outside handles all the contracts now, Dee didn't come here to have anyone killed and it sure wasn't to visit." Wright rubs at her forehead, sighing in distress when that fails to produce anything.

"When I was young, I was an angry, spiteful little thing," she says unprompted, looking at Damien.
"I think I thought I was changing the world one dead man at a time, but I think I just liked the rush of killing. Those are two very different things, Damien. It can start as one and slide into the next faster than you think. I scooped up countless ladies, a few boys, pretending it made up the difference. I just made them into more of me. And what good did that do?" She says, whipping a hand out to gesture to nothing in particular.
"They don't even visit."

She takes a long sip of her tea and Finch's mouth gets unpleasantly wet.
It's the first time he's genuinely wanted to have something since his boss went missing.

"This is the first person you've ever brought to see me, Kaden. Is he a Black Dog?"

"No. We share mutual goals. We're more...partners, but Damien's not affiliated with any gang." He keeps Damien's past occupation private, though he has a sick feeling Medusa already knows.

"Oh, an indoor pet? How lovely. Do you trust him?"

He finally does look at Damien, sitting there, holding his ridiculously dainty teacup.
The question hangs in the air. Medusa raises a brow, but no answer comes.

"So what are you here for then, honey?" Wight asks, leaning in. "I can give you a puppy, if you like."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Do you know exactly what poison Delilah might have stolen, or is it only a suspicion?" Damien is leaning forward, prodding further, voice even and measured, "Genevieve? Is she the one that greeted us at the door? Even if the others don't visit, It's good to have a subordinate you can rely on like that. Do the contracts still go through you, or do you let her handle them all by herself? In which case, we might want to talk to her as well."

The ex-cop has to consciously stop himself from taking a sip from the teacup. He can already feel that Delilah's case will not be a straightforward one. They came to get answers, and so far he's only come up with more questions. Before they can be answered, the witch's attention is on him. It comes as a slight surprise to learn he's the first person Finch has brought here.

We're more... partners.

Another shiver runs down Damien's spine, though not one in discomfort like earlier. He glances over at Kaden, the imposing form of the man made even more severe by the heavy shadows of the study contrasting with the warm glow of the fire. He can't bear looking at him for long. Usually, he doesn't have this issue, but there's a pit of embarrassment rapidly forming in his gut. What he'd said had almost sounded comforting.

Damien gives his head a light shake. They're not partners, precisely because they don't trust each other. This is an arrangement born out of convenience and need.

"I'm... looking for information. From over a decade ago," he briefly considers the puppy offer, but decides it's high time he actually pursued his own investigation. The way he speaks is rehearsed, emotionless, like he's going through the motions of something he's had to do many times over, "I used to be on the police force 15 years ago, and my then-partner was murdered in such a way as to frame me."

"Michael Kell. His medical documents could very well have been altered, but based on the photos, it looked like he'd been in a fight that'd ended in him getting shot up," it's bad luck to mimic injury on oneself. Doubly so when it resulted in someone's death, but Damien does it anyway. His finger points to several spots on his chest and upper arms, moving between them like he's tracing a constellation. Most of the locations are not instantly lethal, until his hand moves up to his forehead, right between the eyes, "I know most of the pattern seems haphazard, but I have no doubt each bullet's target was intended. He was found in his home, no signs of a break-in. Do you know of anyone who might have been hired to do a job like that?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Damien is rambunctious. He's a lot of other things too, but that word comes to mind as the ex-cop goes to work at plying Wight with questions.
Entertaining isn't the right word, captivating maybe.
Wight answers his questions as she can, amused by his enthusiasm. No, she doesn't know what Delilah took. Yes, the woman at the door is Genevieve, and her subordinate.
Kaden gets the feeling the woman is even something of a caretaker.
"She makes the most delightful tea," Wight had said, hiding a small prideful smile.

However the energy and interest soon drains out of Damien like he's sprung a leak when it comes to reciting his mission and purpose.
Finch made him say all that, multiple times. Made him beg too, before he was going to have him killed.

Reciting Kell's death is new. Finch follows every mimed bullet. The shot between the eyes is skilled and deliberate, making the rest of the bullet wounds seem cruel.
Who could have done something like that?

Finch rubs at his eyes, nearly tranquilized by the heat of the room and smell of the tea. Maybe his sleepless nights are finally catching up to him.
Maybe it's all catching up to him.

"No wonder you're so old," she says in a breath, "usually police are left alone unless they can't be dealt with otherwise. It's... very unlucky for you."

"We think the High-Rise were involved," Kaden pipes in, obviously souring Wight's next sip of tea if her grimace is any indication.

"Oh, those shits. Thatta do it. They've promised a few girls better pay just for them to show up in the gutters a day later. No one cares," she says, flicking a hand.

A log on the fire gives way in a shower of sparks, wheezing a last breath as it crumbles into coal. The room's silent enough a puppy's cooing can be heard, a small and defenseless sound to counteract the odd tension in the room.

"I have a name in mind, but I can't give it away. See... this person is close to me," she admits, showing more foolish trust than a woman of her experience ever should. Finch tilts his head, analyzing her for any obvious sign she's manipulating them.
Wight plays with the ring on her finger, staring down at the floor.

"And I was a terrible head figure to her, taught her things that are hard to forget. But I know... I know if I just had a little bit more time..." Her tone takes on one Kaden is familiar with, but it's all wrong hearing it in Medusa's voice. The hair on the back of his neck raises when her voice breaks.

What the fuck.

"I don't have a lot of close people left, Damien. You of all people can understand the need to protect them."

"This is a trick," he says before Damien can speak, tossing down his cup. The tea inside sloshes over the polished surface of the table onto an open book.
"You haven't changed. Why are you lying to us, to me? I know this game, I've played it all my life, Wight. If you're leveraging my empathy for an increase in compensation for this information all you had to do was ask directly."

"I am asking directly. It goes against everything I am- but I am asking! Lord knows I have enough stinking money, I'm asking you to... reconsider," She says, cutting a convincing scared old crone as she pleads to him. The claws ruin it, just a bit.
"I'm not lying. I wish I was. I wish she had never come on my bleeding doorstep. I wish she never made me feel like my whole life was a waste! But now I -"

She looks down at her hands.
"She's made me soft. And I have to do right by her."

Kaden looks at Damien. "It's Genevieve. She couldn't have gotten far, let's go."

"No." Wight begs, trying to get to her feet but stumbling back into her chair. Her tea kettle loses its place in the scuffle, shattering into pieces on the floor.
"Kaden, she's just a lost girl. Please, she didn't know any better, Damien."

"Shut up!" He yells it, feels the strain in his throat.

Betty lifts her head, whimpering at the thunder of his voice.
The fire cracks again.
The leather of his gloves creak as his hands clench.

"People don't fucking change, Medusa. And if you somehow have it's made you worse and you will regret it."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien can't move. He can't feel anything. With the death of the log in the fireplace, the darkness in the room grows heavier, its long tendrils encroaching on his periphery. It takes him a second to realize that's not the case - his vision is blurring, dimming at the edges, despite the fact that his eyes are wide open in shock. The more they struggle to take in their surroundings, the more the study ceases to exist, and Damien is thrown into a private darkness of his own.

He can't believe it. He'd spent all that time rotting in jail fantasizing about this moment, but now that it's arrived it seems wrong, almost too simple. He should feel something, and he does - a lot, too much. But whatever emotions might be battling inside him are trumped by an all-encompassing numbness settling like a blanket of white noise over him, isolating everything both within and without.

Sound is barely reaching him, only snippets of conversation enough to convey the truth of the situation. If Wight's intonation is supposed to evoke some kind of sympathy from Damien, it doesn't, because he can't hear it. All his focus is on the image of Genevieve taking the weapons of the two men she'd guided through the manor. He imagines his firearm clutched in her manicured fingers as she's stood over his best friend, bloodied and beaten. Did Michael try and crawl away, beg for mercy before she murdered him? Did her employers toss a coin when deciding which of the two cops to sick her on, this "lost girl"? Wight- Medusa had called Damien unlucky.

Kaden's yelling is what pulls him out of that hell. For the incredibly short amount of time Damien has known the gangster, he's heard him raise his tone only once back at the Moonlit, but even that was enough to leave the impression such volume doesn't quite fit his otherwise smooth voice. The ex-cop is grateful for its sobering effect now, though.

Damien nearly trips over himself with how fast he rises, feet pounding away as he rushes for the door. He pulls it open unceremoniously, its frame colliding with the wall hard enough to make the baubles on a nearby table shake with a clinking sound, like bells. It makes the whimpering of the old bloodhound even more heartwrenching, but the ex-cop doesn't perceive it, barreling down the hallway in what he hopes is the right direction.

If Kaden is following, he doesn't know. He doesn't stop to turn around and check.

He's praying Finch is right and the assassin hasn't gotten far. But in this jungle, what would even constitute near or far? As long as she hasn't gotten out of the front door... The hallways are a damp maze of vines and noises coming from all different directions, now that the animals have been disturbed by the rushed footsteps of the human invading their territory. They are crying out, signaling the unknown danger he presents. That doesn't stop Damien from running, hunting for any sign of the woman. The numbness has given way to rage, which in turn has given way to fear - he can't let her escape his clutches.

Suddenly, the ex-cop catches sight of something, like a strand of blonde hair vanishing into the greenery. It might as well be the tail-end of an exotic bird, but he doesn't ponder the possibility before pushing past the plants, entering the garden the very person he's chasing looks after. He doesn't stop to think about not being in possession of his firearm, or that Genevieve might not even be alone.

Damien forces a path through the dense foliage's defenses, yet the Siren is not there. Not as far as he can see.

"Come out!" he demands to the air, head swirling around, searching the shades of green, "Come out, you coward!"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch sends a cold, withering stare down at the old woman he had called friend and doesn't recognize her.
At the rushed sound of Damien's rising, Kaden turns away to follow him, Medusa pleading after them.
"She's dangerous!" Her aching voice howls at their backs.

It doesn't take him long to realize Damien's efficiency is anything but. The man misses one of their turns, as far as Finch knows. He looks down the green hallway and suddenly can't be sure.

It seems to stretch endlessly, like the long throat of a snake. He imagines the lamps posted at each six foot interval to be teeth, the red carpet a tongue.
An open maw, inhaling them, taking them to a stomach to be dissolved in acid.

"Damien!" He calls, hoping the blur of his partner may slow and focus.

It doesn't.

He realizes, chasing after this fool that he should've grabbed him before he left the study.
He shouldn't have put so much focus on Wight, not when Damien went so quiet. This is Damien freezing. This is the man heading into incoming traffic.

And Finch isn't close enough to jerk the wheel back into safety.

It is completely likely this man is going to turn a corner and run face first into a knife.
Or they'll be separated. That's the good case scenario.

When they do take a turn, Finch slams his shoulder making it. Not into a knife, but into the wall strong enough to chip the already flaking drywall. At the speed he's going the pain should register harder in his chest, but it feels like a love tap.

There's natural light in this new section of jungle, and a moisture to the air that wasn't in the rest of the house. Kaden almost believes he's outside, but it's November.

This place has a botanical garden.

Finch is coming to terms with the redundancy of such a thing when he's finally able to lay a hand on Damien's shoulder, but he refrains at the last moment.

Life takes on a dreamlike quality, the vivid surrealism of a half awake, half asleep dream.
Finch trips on nothing, stumbles on air. The ground tries to rush up and slam into him.

Believing the run had taken more out of him than previously assessed, Finch can't ignore the familiar artificial fatigue making his body heavy.

He's been drugged before, but his jittering mind tries to recollect where. How. They never drank anything.

Flashes of sweet amber liquid fill his mind, the amazing smell flooding his senses.

The tea. He should have known.

He knows to drop down to one knee. There's no fighting a stupor and he'd like to save from breaking his nose and biting his tongue off in a fall.
Damien either isn't as experienced or the chemical rush catches up to him faster than it did with Finch.

Either way, Kaden hears the blood chilling sound of water splashing, droplets hitting tile.

"Damien?"

He doesn't hear anything.

Finch stumbles in a direction, clumsily pushing aside ferns. It could be a hallucination. It could all be a hallucination. He could still be in the study, drooling over himself.

Damien struggling to keep his head above water could also be fake and not worth getting into the pool for.

Finch rubs at his eyes, shakes his head and hopes it clears up something.
It doesn't, unfortunately. If it's real, Kaden could be too weak to keep himself above water, let alone Damien.

These are all perfectly logical, reasonable things to be thinking in a situation like this.

Finch doesn't dive in, so much as he walks off the edge.
The water is warm. It's so warm, it's like a blanket. It's like slipping into a warm bathe of tea.
Some giggly part of himself that doesn't understand the severity of the situation wants to ask Wight for the chemical recipe.

This would be amazing for his insomnia.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Fuck, come out!" Damien is shouting, threatening and begging at the same time. He gets no answer back, though, words slurring when he feels his tongue grow numb. The tendrils at the edges of his vision are back, not just shadows being cast by the vines. As much as he tries to banish them away, they seem to only be closing in on him further and further. The movement as he shakes his head is sluggish, not fully under his control. He knows next to nothing about toxins, but is this what Finch's paralyzing agent would have done setting in?

Damien only faintly notices that Kaden has caught up and is kneeling on the ground. That would probably be a good example to follow, given how shaky the ex-cop's legs are. Hell, maybe he should just lie down here in the sun. That'd be a nice place to lose consciousness.

"Over here, darling," he thinks he hears a voice coming from somewhere on his right.

Flesh hitting flesh resounds in the humid air as he summons a final modicum of strength and slaps himself across the face, hard as he can manage. He can't let her escape. It's sheer stubbornness that carries the ex-cop forward.

He doesn't move that far away, but every step in the garden feels maddening, like he's fighting against an invisible force. It reminds him of walking in a dream. He can't see clearly in front of himself, eyelids growing heavy, but eventually a dash of blurry red in the sea of green draws his waning focus. Is that the macaw from earlier, or is it Genevieve's lips, mocking him? He's not sure, he barely knows where he is. Nevertheless, Damien grits his teeth and takes another struggling step forward, only for his foot to not find solid ground.

He doesn't instantly recognize that the warmth surrounding his body is water, but once the realization settles so does the panic. He knows how to swim - used to be good at it back in school - but his limbs now feel so unbelievably heavy. It doesn't take long for his head to disappear fully beneath the surface, failing to take a deep breath.

It might not be the Hudson, but whether he's drowning in the cold New York harbor or some kind of indoor pool at a senile old lady's mansion doesn't change the fact that his lungs are filling with water. His chest is burning. If Damien thought dying in a car crash would have been pathetic, this is on a whole other level. What an idiot.

He's fighting tooth and nail to remain conscious, despite knowing it's a losing battle. He was so close. His arm reaches out for... he doesn't even know. Some last pointless, desperate gesture.

A shape falls into the water just as his vision is going black.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

It's difficult to know which way is up, and which way is down.
Damien is a dark blur that's gone still, sinking to the bottom. That's easy enough to follow, and following him is all that he knows.

This is exactly how Finch was going to have him killed, down to being half drugged out of his wits.
The water's warm, that's the only difference.
When Kaden's own need for air lazily pokes at his aching brain he decides this isn't a merciful way to go at all.

Kaden grabs Damien's outstretched arm, like he should have before this had started, before it had grown so far out of his control.
The man is made out of stone, his own personal anchor keeping him pinned down to the bottom of this ridiculous pool.

Who puts a pool here?

He's dying, and his last thought is who puts a fucking pool here.
Is it to water the plants? Is it actually just an absurdly large fountain? Does it have a stone frog perched somewhere spitting water from it's lips? Or maybe a mermaid.

Kaden's a little disappointed he's never going to find out.

He kicks off the bottom, struggling to reach the surface.

Sweet air fills his lungs in ragged gasps, water filling it next when his head dips under again.
It's a miracle Kaden reaches the edge of the pool, act of God himself when Kaden's able to push Damien out of the water. Clearly in a last act of defiance, Damien's body tries it's best to roll back in.
Typical.

Damien's pale in the face, blue lipped. He looks completely different with his hair flattened down wet, younger.

If he's dead after all that, Finch is going to kill him.

But it's unlikely he'll get the chance. When Kaden reaches for the lip to pull himself up, his arms don't move.
Nor do his legs. He sinks like a rock, like an inanimate object. Something that's already dead, or wasn't alive in the first place.
It should deeply worry him, and somewhere deep beneath the haze it does, but it's a small thing.

He hasn't slept in so long. He just wants to sleep, curled up in zero gravity. Warm, silent, small.
So he does, and it's going to be the deepest rest he's ever had.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Something reaches out to grasp Damien's arm. He doesn't register getting dragged back up, but his vestibular apparatus does, and it's not happy about it.

Being jostled around like that combined with the comparative coolness of the tiles he gets pushed back onto deliver just enough of a sensory shock for the man to take in a deep, gasping breath. But his lungs aren't full of just air, so the inhale quickly turns into a cough. He rolls onto his side hacking water, moving uncomfortably close to the edge. A pair of strong hands are the only thing that keeps him on land.

He catches a glimpse of his savior from under hooded eyes, more closed than open.

Kaden is in the water. Did he jump in after him? Did he rescue him from the pool? Why? It would have been easier to let him drown - he deserves it for all of the trouble he's caused and all of the stupid decisions he's made.

That's an uncharitable thought - the ex-convict should be grateful to be alive. For both men to be alive.

It's with utter horror that he watches Finch disappear back underwater.

There's an exclamation on Damien's cold lips, but he doesn't have the power to give it life. Instead, all his effort goes towards shooting his arm out, trying to grab onto Kaden, to keep him from disappearing out of sight. But he's not fast enough, just by an inch. The form of the other man sinks toward the bottom, its details indistinguishable, but Damien can still picture his brown eyes clearly. He imagines them - dark and unfathomably deep - looking at him in disappointment. He'd promised to watch Kaden's back.

The ex-cop's instincts for self-preservation are fighting against his will, preventing him from crawling forward and tumbling over the edge. Well, it's more likely that the effect of whatever poison is coursing through his system is keeping his muscles slack and useless. It's a desperate feeling. He's slipping in and out of consciousness, lost, alone, and defeated. He can't fail another partner.

It's with that thought that Damien finally passes out.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

--- Time skip transition thingy ---

Finch doesn't believe he's in heaven.

Heaven wouldn't smell this bad or be this wet.
Hell makes more sense, but hell should be warmer, shouldn't it?
No, he's fucking damp. His ass is wet again, and he hates that. Not drenched, but half dry, meaning he's been unconscious for quite some time.
He's still alive. His chest hurts and when he finally lifts his head his neck gives a concerning creak.

His hands are tied behind his back, by the smooth characterless plastic biting into his skin it's been done with a zip tie of all things.
Shifting in the chair, his searching finds another pair of hands interlocked with his own and his fingers spring back.

Finch can only turn his head so far, but it's enough to see Damien in his peripheral. The last time he saw the man he looked awful.

There's no windows in this place, the walls are covered in a yellowing grunge, brown where rusty piping breaches out.
Most concerning is the drain by their feet.
There's pool water dripping there now, but Kaden guesses that's not the liquid it most frequently slurps down.

Maybe once this room was a only a regular shower house that hadn't quite left it's renovation era, but now it's better days are long behind it. It'll never be used for more than cleaning messes.

Kaden can't help but miss the plants.

"Damien?" His voice echos, just a little. A glance over his shoulder accomplishes nothing, but a neck spasm.
"Answer me."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

It's tragic to think that Damien's drug-addled dreams take him back to the prison showers - smaller than he remembers and even dirtier, but familiar nevertheless. What an awful place, the type where one barely gets any solace or privacy. At the very least it forces you to learn how to clean up efficiently.

The ex-convict used to have an arrangement with a guard when he first got put behind bars to use the facility alone, when the other inmates were doing yard activities. It was one of the few things he could do to keep safe. One day some of his "prison mates" had made an arrangement with another of the guards to use the showers at the same time. That was the first instance anyone tried to shank him, with a sharpened piece of glass of all things. In hindsight, not the most creative option. While the attempt had been ultimately unsuccessful, the healed-over scar running down the man's forearm is a constant reminder - it had required stitches.

A single drop falls from the tip of his fingers. Has his mind decided to be even crueler and open up such an old wound? No, the liquid is too cold and too real. Damien's faculties are slowly but surely returning to him, and the way his damp clothes are clinging to his body lets him know he's not dreaming. A voice confirms it.

"Kaden!" it takes Damien a bit to realize who's talking, but then relief floods his system. He tries to turn around before a sharp pain forces him to stop and wince.

He's not sure which is worse - the soreness in his muscles or his dizzying headache. No, it's definitely the zip tie binding his wrists. He doesn't know exactly how long he was passed out for, but it was obviously long enough for Genevieve (he assumes) to drag two fully grown, wet men into this room, then seat them down and restrain them. That can't have been pleasant to do. Thinking of the blonde, where is she? The ex-cop's eyes take in the corner of the showers he has sight of, searching for danger.

"Hold still for a bit," Damien whispers leaning back. The way he is attempting to maneuver his hands is uncomfortable, but he does it anyway, trying to reach for Finch's own pair of plastic handcuffs to loosen them. It's somewhat easier than going for his own, but not by a lot.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch exhales at Damien's voice, shoulders sagging ever slightly.

It isn't a moment later Damien starts being Damien again and Kaden is reminded of how they got here in the first place.

He clenches his teeth at the ex-convict's fingers scratching at his own with very little consideration or tact. The pulling makes the plastic dig in deeper.
In fair retribution, Finch pulls back on Damien's cuffs.
The tug stops the prodding, but it knocks Damien's elbows into Finch's.

He's purposefully difficult until Damien seems to notice.

"I told you to stay where I could see you," he spits over a shoulder.
"Why don't you ever do what I say?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien is fooling himself into thinking he's making even the tiniest bit of progress on the zip tie when Kaden puts his frantic efforts to a stop, shifting him further back with a sharp tug. Any protests the ex-convict might have had are quieted down when the other man speaks.

Usually, Damien would have been insulted by Finch's tone, but now he just feels regret. He fucked up and it nearly cost them both their lives. It might still cost them.

"She was getting away, and I... I'm sorry," that's all he manages to reply, no traces of snark in his low voice. His head hangs low. Damien can't quite articulate what'd come over him when he ran out of the study. That whole chain of events is muddy in his mind, partially because of the drugs, partially because whatever flash of desperation had carried him down those hallways had also clouded his reason.

He breathes deeply, shoulders rising with the inhale, "Let me- we need to get out of these. I can give loosening the cuffs another try, slowly this time. Unless you have some other idea."

He'll take anything he can get. Damien doesn't go to move, waiting completely still for Kaden to speak.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Damien's sorry excuse for an apology does very little in the present circumstances. The man was dead weight in his arms. It was like dragging a corpse out of the water.

Kaden looks away, twisting his head until the vertebrae in his neck crack and release.
Damien waits this time, even asks for permission. A small petty part of Finch wants to tell him no and that he'll pick at Damien's cuffs instead.

But he already knows he'd be too distracted to make any real progress, not without something actually useful like a knife. Tied to Damien, wet, he's living in a sensory hell and he's ten minutes away from thrashing like a mad man.
"Do what you need to do."

Finch knows for a fact his hands are softer than Damien's because unlike most people, he takes care of his skin.
That fact is made all too clear as this dragon man drags his scaley skin across Finch's. It's not like being rubbed with sandpaper, but the thought occurs. The man can't even take care of himself in this small regard.
That being said compared to before, Kaden thinks Damien might be attempting to be gentle.

It's like being fondled by a Velcro brush.

"There's two reasons someone like her would save us only to imprison us at a second location. One, she wants to negotiate for money, drugs, freedom, employment or power. The set piece is being used as intimidation," he states in favor of sitting and doing nothing, to put his focus anywhere else.

"Two," he begins, eyes trailing back to the drain in the floor, "it's not a set piece and she's going to torture and kill us. It's very likely she'll use Kell to cause you distress. If you show vulnerability it's possible she'll use it against you. I want you to remember that I'm right here behind you."

For what little good it does.

The sound of the door swinging open interrupts anything Damien might've been saying.

The woman that comes in is nearly unrecognizable from the woman that greeted them at the door.
The memorable v neck is still there, but its underneath a ratty old sweater.
She's wearing sweatpants, with what Kaden hopes are paint stains covering the front. A tattered book bag hangs from one hand, swaying as she walks in.
Sad looking loafers hang off her feet and Finch feels dread pool in his stomach.

The choice in wear doesn't take away from her regality. Her movements are mechanical, her posture is impeccable.
Everything about her speaks confidence.

"I thought you came to hurt her," she says, walking to a table that belongs in a trash pile. Or in a disgusting shower house. Idlly, she looks through her bag. An obvious scare tactic.
"Or steal from her. Like everyone else."

Gene pulls Damien's gun from the bag, practices loading the mag in just to pop it out again. Like it's a fidget toy.
She turns to face them, holding the weapon.

"You really wanna kill me? After what, ten-fifteen years? You're still that angry?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien gets to it as soon as he's granted permission. Carefully, meticulously, he works at loosening the tie. The other man's discomfort sits at the back of his mind and he does his best to work around it, but touching is not something that can be avoided. And surely, there's nothing more uncomfortable than being trapped like this. The sooner they're both out of this position, the better.

It would be much easier to cut through the plastic, or try and break it off, but under the current circumstances, the only thing the ex-convict can attempt is to untie it, at least enough for Kaden to slip free. It's difficult with his cold hands also being bound - he has to try several times to get a fingernail into the locking head of the zip tie, which keeps slipping his grip. He keeps trying.

He is so focused on this task, he is only half-listening to Finch talk, a pleasant background rumble echoing through the otherwise empty space. Until he mentions Kell. Damien's been trying not to think about Michael in order not to go off the deep end again, but at the idea that his killer might use the dead cop to get a rise out of his partner... The anger from earlier is back, this black pit searing in his gut, clawing upwards for release. He struggles to swallow it down, heeding Finch's words, reminding himself he's indeed not alone in this - it's not just his life being threatened. But it's painful, merely a temporary fix.

They need to escape.

Damien's efforts briefly stop as the door opens. Genevieve strides in.

The ex-cop straightens out, shoulder blades almost touching Kaden's as his fingers proceed to work on the zip tie one small, barely perceivable movement at a time. His muscles are tense from the fine movements he's forcing himself to make, but also from the fact that he's having to restrain himself against lashing out at the woman.

Her question almost makes him lose his composure and laugh. Of course he wants to kill her. He is going to kill her. Looking at her now in those clothes, with that nonchalant menacing attitude she's putting on, he makes that vow all over again. No need for her to know that, though. Damien's expression is more or less blank, though the hatred with which he stares at Genevieve is a little harder to conceal.

"You killed him, but you weren't the one that ordered him dead," his tone is even, stating a fact, "Who hired you? Who in the High-Rise put out the hit on my partner?"