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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

Kaden doesn't say who he saw.

The name is obvious to infer, but still he doesn't speak it, and neither does he point out what could have led him to make a mistake, to think it was her. Damien searches their vicinity, ignoring the curious masks for a moment - he has a vague idea of what Delilah is supposed to look like, based on the lifeless photos of her he was granted permission to view. But that's not how you locate a person in a masked ball - it's about the way one carries oneself, the air one exudes, maybe a preference for a way of dressing.

The ex-cop still has no idea exactly what to be on the lookout for that makes Delilah Delilah.

What Kaden does say is that he's sorry - the words are short, barely audible and it takes Damien a few too many seconds to fully take them in. They give him pause and he turns to stare at the consigliere. The ex-cop doesn't believe the quiet phrase is meant for him, not really, but... this is a first. He hasn't heard the capo says 'sorry' before.

"Don't be," Damien replies back after several beats of silence.

He has started to maneuver the two out from the scene, towards somewhere calmer. The ex-convict keeps holding onto the tux's sleeve, not wanting to chance losing Finch in another mad dash. For a second he muses whether to exit the gala and head for the restrooms to let the man recuperate there, but the guest with wine all over his expensive suit is headed in that direction already.

Not given many other options, the ex-convict steers towards the periphery of the large room, where the watchful and intimidated linger. It should be quieter there, given the fact that real socialization happens in the center of the space so that people can show off and meet in the light. Damien is aware he is actively moving away from the peacock-lawyer he'd caught sight of, but Simons is enough of a beacon he should be able to locate her again easily.

Will the dove still be there when he comes back?

Kaden gripping his sleeve pulls Damien out of his thoughts - it gives him almost as much whiplash as hearing the consigliere apologize, reminding him of that time in the penthouse. The question that follows stuns him further, making a twinge of pain shoot through his system. He can't see the Black Dog's face, but... there's an underlying fear in his tone. He's afraid she's not coming back, after everything she's apparently done to him. How is Damien even expected to answer?

"I- I don't know," he tries, licking his lips, "But there's really no point torturing yourself with this... One way or another, I'm sure you'll find her."

A monolith-like pillar comes in sight and Damien walks around to stand behind it with Kaden in tow. It's not the best, but the place provides some amount of privacy. He tries to have Kaden lean back against the square column.

"For now just breathe. Do you need anything?"
 
Damien takes him to as close to privacy as he can. The sear of so many eyes blocked makes him feel better, but it's a small thing.
An angry part of him wants to be mad at it, at the presumption of being tended to like he's a lost child. He can't muster it, even if he should.

One way or another...

Even if the words are a poor salve, the truth may be better than hopeful lies Finch would see through.
But what if this really is it? What if she's gone? And she didn't leave anything to explain why, or what might've happened to cause her to leave.
Not even a note.

Right, he can't torture himself with this. That's what Damien said.
Kaden straightens up, pulling the threads of his disjointed self together like an ugly mismatched quilt.

Breathe in through his nose, softly out from his mouth.

He shakes his head, "Just a minute here. That's all."

Finch is not sure he gets that minute.
Time is playing tricks on him. The noise of the crowd is making him drowsy, a constant stream of white noise tickling his brain. Of course he experiences this level of disorientation at a party and not, for example, in bed.

His fortune continues to spoil when there's a tap at his shoulder.

The capo nearly believes another fox has entered the party. It's not unbelievable, it is a popular mammal.
But something about the markings are off. The mask is cuter, more endearing.

A red panda.

"Finch?" The panda peers at him, glances at Damien. The boy pulls his mask up, revealing a young familiar face. "Dad said you'd be a wolf."

Kaden takes a breath, let's it out slowly. If anyone had to see that display, this is about as good a person as it could have been.
"It's me, Asahi. It's good to see you."

A smile instantly brightens the Asahi's face.
"Oh good, I was afraid I was being an idiot."

The boy rubs an arm, leaving his mask up to muss his hair. He's shorter than Kaden, most people are, but it's the softness of his features that truly make him endearing. The boy didn't inherent any of his father's strong features, or his accent.
Kaden's not sure if he even speaks much Japanese.
"I don't know anyone here. Everyone's either sixty or six."

There's an awkward pause as they stand there. Asahi looks expectantly at Damien.

Kaden clears his throat. Tonight is all he has to get through, that's all.
"This is my partner, Damien."

The red panda instantly has his hand out to shake Damien's.
"Oh sweet. Hello, just call me Ash, I hate Asahi. I was going to bring my girlfriend, but dad said no."
"You have a girlfriend?" Kaden attempts to make that sound as unsurprised as he can.
It's not that he couldn't, it's that Asahi's excuse for never having one is not abusing his standing to get one.
It would be noble if this potentially fictional woman wasn't his potential girlfriend. He's either lied to her, or he's lying to Kaden. Finch frankly doesn't care enough to find the truth.
The situation is harmless and amusing unanalyzed.

The boy crosses his arms defensively, wrinkling the cut of his suit. It's possible his father will be wearing something more traditional, but Asahi is dressed as American as he possibly can be.
He even has an ear piercing. Kaden can imagine how well that goes over at the family table.

This is an exceptionally good sign. Not only has the Nakurra brought him, but they've set him free to be himself.

"Um, yeah. It's not super official, but yeah, I do," he states with a firm and proud nod of his head.
"And she's a regular, nice girl too. She doesn't do any of this bullshit. Or- I mean..."

This bullshit meaning the criminal empire that pays for his cars and designer clothes.
It's not Finch's place.
He wishes he had a wine glass to fiddle with again.
They can't be more than five or six years apart, but it feels like a huge difference.

"I'm sorry, Damien, was it?" Asahi straightens up, manufacturing a vaguely difficult to believe air of maturity.
"I can't believe you have a partner, Kaden. You must be so happy. You always seemed..." The little Nakurra trails off, smiles anxiously.
Any number of words could fill that space.

"What do you do, Damien? Are you part of the 'elites'?"

He even quotes himself with a gesture.
Kaden holds in a sigh, but he can't stop from gently rubbing at the brow of his mask.
It's not a face palm, but it's a near thing.

Its not fair the mask doesn't cover his mouth. He could smile as much as he'd like if it did.

"Or, uhhh how'd you two meet?"
 
Just a minute.

That's all Kaden had requested, but his reprieve lasts for a little bit longer. Not by much, and it doesn't bother Damien either way. He simply hopes the man can pull himself back together for the time being - as likable as the human parts of him are, he's headed into a dinner with other organized crime members. This vulnerability can't be a safe look to present in front of such company. Damien is aware Finch is capable, incredibly so based on what he's seen of the Black Dog so far. Yet, much like what Michael is to the ex-cop, Delilah is that one topic that's able to throw the capo completely off balance, even if it's just a fleeting similarity he may or may not have spotted somewhere in the crowd. He needs to remain calm, Damien won't be around all night to chase after Kaden and pull him into quiet corners.

Shit.

Blumenthal crosses his arms. He could ask himself when over the last weeks between getting drugged and tied up he'd started doting on the guy, but it's a pointless question. He'd kind of led with that.

The muscles in Damien's limbs stiffen when a figure approaches from around the column, disrupting the shortlived piece by tapping Kaden on the shoulder - a red panda that seems to recognize Finch. And the consigliere recognizes him back, greets him.

Ah, this must be the guilt-ridden Yakuza's son.

The ex-cop gathers as much from the two men's interaction, and his tension eases the more he listens to Asahi- Ash speak - the boy is friendly, informal, unceremoniously revealing his youthful face. As far as first impressions go, his is more than the 'pleasant enough' Kaden had claimed. Speaking of who, Damien glances at the Black Dog out of the corner of his eye (well, out of the corner of the eyeholes in the fox disguise) and he can't help but think that this tiny bit of normalcy is doing good for settling his nerves. Or maybe Finch is putting on airs. Nevertheless, one can hope.

As entertaining as the conversation has been to listen to from the outside, Damien is forced to get involved beyond a handshake.

Kaden calls him his partner again, but it's not with the meaning he'd put behind the word in Wight's study, or with the tone he'd used to ask Damien to stay with him for the day, making him confusingly flustered. This is just a necessity of the role - now it's gained some speaking parts. Not unexpected.

"It is, yes. Damien, with an 'e'," the ex-cop smile at the young man in such a way his eyes crinkle behind the mask, "How great to meet you, Ash. I've heard about you."

Damien's expression doesn't waver as the boy keeps speaking - he's endearing, asking a lot of polite questions as well as saying some things he probably should keep to himself. He can't believe Kaden has a partner? Now that's hard to believe. Finch could probably pull whoever he wanted. Yet, given the fact the man supposedly gets off on telling people 'no', maybe he chooses to remain alone. Still, what has he always seemed like?

Ash inquires how the two met. Which time? The one when the capo had Damien beaten and nearly thrown into the Hudson to die drowning? The ex-convict has reiterated the absurdity of that point in comparison to the present circumstances so often in his head, yet the memory feels incredibly distant for some reason.

Damien hums in thought, and the sound is genuine, as if he's reminiscing, "It was a chance meeting if you'll believe it, some years ago at a bar. Shared a couple of drinks, a couple of interests." That's mostly the truth. Granted, with a lot of omissions, but building a lie on the basis of honesty is more convincing than going about it any other way, "We reconnected only recently, again by chance, and I suppose you could say we're... testing things out."

"What a shame your girlfriend isn't here. We might have had some things in common, regular as we both are. I don't do any of "this bullshit" either," he chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Don't do much nowadays honestly, apart from some charity work here and there."

The broke ex-convict calls himself a philanthropist and it's such a laughable joke he can barely contain himself, but it's a safe bet as far as answering what he does for a living - it has an air of significance while meaning basically nothing.

"So, what do you make of the gala so far, Ash? I think the cause this year is a worthwhile one."
 
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Asahi looks delighted Kaden's supposed beu is giving him the time of day. The boy seems particularly invigorated at the prospect Damien's heard of him. He nods when it's appropriate, smiling.
"Oh, that's romantic," he says about their chance meeting fifteen years ago.

Finch wouldn't have called it romantic. It was really anything but, however the little Nakurra is in that age where everything is just a tiny bit beautiful.
It's nauseating.

"I like to keep her as far away from this part of my life as I can," Asahi says with all the hard earned experience of a war vetern that's never so much as stubbed a toe.
It differs largely from how Kaden treats Damien. He hasn't made much of an attempt to keep the man from his work life, in fact quite the opposite.
He went to Kaden for it specifically, and then gets angry at him for delivering. And not necessarily angry at Kaden's lack of a conscience, but more so his inappropriate approach to relationships.

Kaden finds his gaze lingering on Damien as he speaks, transfixed.
He is truly the most bizarre man Finch knows.

"Oh yeah, for sure," the boy says, folding his mask back over his face.
"Loss of animal life is so unnecessary, and once they're gone they're gone forever. Even if we bring the earth back from the brink, we'll never get those species back. Like the black rhino. I think there's only like six thousand left now."

As if to justify his point, a rhino statue of ice is in queue with the rest of the lineup.
It's nowhere near the size of it's real life counterpart but even from the distance it is a magnificent piece of art.
Like the poor ice caps (which must be part of the metaphorical nature of the art), it glistens wetly, beginning to melt.

"Right," Kaden nods. Another instance of a powerful animal being brought low to be mourned by the lesser animals that made it so.
"They're hunted for their horns that possess alleged medicinal properties."

"Yup, it's fucking disgusting."

Finch should have better things to do than play with someone who's beneath him.
And yet nothing presents itself. And the ego boost after making a fool of himself isn't unwelcome either.

"What do you think they should do differently to save the rhinos?" Finch asks with a casual, light air.

It's a cruel question for a kid who's only gone to richest parts of Europe.
Asahi taps his foot, thinking.
"Will you make fun of me?"
"Not to your face."

"I would breed them," Asahi says, a tonal shift deepening his voice. "No one is going to stop poachers from wanting more, someone should use it against them. Only hurdle is Vietnamese think wild horns are better than farmed ones, but how are they going to tell the difference?" The boy asks with a snort.
"I would get rich and the rhinos would be okay... Well, some of them."

"How do you justify killing an animal for one part of it?"

Asahi shrugs. "The poachers did it just fine. At least my method would be sustainable. Not to mention I could just take half the horn of the best breeders and leave them alive to make more."

There are possible holes in this method. Cost versus profit for keeping land and food for such large animals.
Cost of butchering them as well, not to mention the elaborate lies and laundering of horns to give them the reputation of wild harvest to buyers.
But it is an interesting idea. Finch's whole life's work is founded on feeding the most depraved appetites of humanity. If the need exists and someone is going to be used and abused because of it, people like Kaden might as well feed the beast and gain from it.
It's a bleak sentiment coming from a red panda, but he's on the right track.

"You should consider doing that with tigers before they're gone," Finch muses, "You might have something."
"You really think so?"
"No."

Asahi pouts, or maybe frowns. It's hard to tell with the mask making everything he does seem underwhelming.

"If you're going to be morally bankrupt to make money you might as well make the most you can doing the worst you can," Kaden informs, even though mentoring the boy is not his position and words will never teach something so barbaric. The boy has to experience something first hand if he wants to understand.
Like a tiger taking her cubs on a hunt.
They won't connect food to antelope until they see it killed.

"Well, yeah..." The little Nakurra cub mumbles, shuffling his weight nervously. "But I don't actually wanna hurt anyone. Not that bad."

"You don't have the proper motivation yet. Don't worry, it'll come to you."

"You sound like dad," the boy grumbles ruefully.

Kaden shrugs. He'll take that as a compliment.

"So... he's really open about everything with you, huh?" Asahi asks Damien.
"And you're...fine with that? With his job?"
 
It's when Ash and Kaden start talking about the logistics of breeding black rhinos for their horns that Damien is reminded the young boy is indeed the son of a crime boss.

His idea is rough, childish, but the tone with which he says it has a certain pragmatism to it - it's the entrepreneurial opportunism of someone that's grown up with money and been taught to seek out ways to make it, even if in this case that double as... some type of conservation effort. The ex-convict knows little about saving endangered species, but from what he read in case he had to speak on the topic tonight, captivity is not really the answer.

Furthermore, what a sad thought - to be caged for your own good, to have your instincts dulled until you become docile and complacent. And then you get slaughtered, not for your meat, but because someone somewhere has been duped into thinking a small part of you can cure them. Or maybe they want it as a status symbol. Is your life even worth preserving when that's the predetermined end? Finch advises the kid to do even worse.

Damien remains silent throughout, listening. This is not his place to speak, until Ash once more turns his attention his way.

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" the ex-cop shrugs, keeping his tone light-hearted. He can't help feeling that the Nakurra has another purpose behind the question, outside of being curious. If he keeps his supposed girlfriend away from this aspect of his life, how much does she actually know, and how anxious is he what her reaction might be upon finding out? Damien sighs, "Relationships are built on compromises, you know? If you really care for someone. Plus, people can always-"

"Is this thing on?"

Several microphone taps send static over the speakers, and a deep baritone voice cuts through the din of the ballroom, interrupting Damien's sentence. With the crowd quieting down to a hush, it becomes evident that the orchestra has stopped playing as well, probably a while back now. Masked faces are looking in the direction of this new speaker, and the fox turns around to follow their example.

"I didn't expect to have to give a speech this evening, but we're missing an antelope-"

"A saola!" that's Jasmine Simons calling out with a laugh from where she's sat at a table with her entourage, able to throw her voice halfway across the room to be heard.

"Excuse me," the man with the bear mask nods in her direction from his place on the stage, "Yes, we're missing a saola. He should have gone with a turtle - last year it was an hour late, this year it's going on two. Next year he might not even show up."

The crowd giggles despite the joke not being anywhere near funny. It borders on dad humor.

"If he'd gone with a turtle it would have been a shell of a time," the speaker adds as if to prove that point, leaning into the microphone and eliciting another bout of polite laughter, the way only one of the organizers can.

Damien takes a step forward. He is farsighted, has been since he was a kid. That's why he has reading glasses. It's not that bad - supposed to start getting worse after hitting 40 - but it does mean objects nearby get a little blurry, especially text. Distant objects, on the other hand, he can see clear as day.

He can see the tall form of the man on stage with his sturdy wide shoulders, yet looser around the waist than the ex-cop remembers with white hair poking behind the bear mask. All in all, Moore looks well-preserved for a pensioner in his 60s - dressed in a well-fitting black suit, he has discarded the jacket to roll up his sleeves, a watch and several rings glisten on his hand as he pulls out a sheet of paper.

"Our usual orator might not be here, but I have been given specific instructions and a speech to read to you all. Let's see..." the retired chief of police moves the paper right up to his face then takes out a pair of glasses which he hovers over the words, in lieu of putting them on give that the mask is in the way, "Good evening and welcome... being here tonight is truly an honor... more than 90% of all species to have lived on Earth have gone extinct... now we are the leading cause..."

Tom mumbles into the microphone skimming the text. He carries himself with a casual air, speaking in such a relaxed manner that it invites people to listen, draws them in. He obviously has experience standing in front of a crowd, though there's an amount of nervousness in his posture one wouldn't notice unless they were familiar. Seemingly having had enough of the speech, Moore folds the paper back up with an exhale, "There's a second page too... But I don't think any of you want to hear that. It can be our little secret, I won't tell Navarro if you all don't."

There's that polite laughter again.

"I'll keep it brief. We all know why we're here, and that's for a good cause, one that affects everyone. Difference is unlike most - and you'll pardon me, but it's the truth - we can contribute something immediate and actionable. So, enjoy yourselves tonight - eat, drink, dance, get ready for the auction at the end, there are quite a few gems in it this year... My one hope is that by the end of the night all of you leave with your souls full and your pockets empty, feeling thoroughly robbed."

The speech ends in applause - of course, what else could be expected of the attendants? The fox claps along as well, never shifting his focus away from Moore (when was the last time he blinked?). The older man walks off the stage, into several awaiting handshakes and back pats. He has a slight limp as he moves down the stairs.

"Sounds like dinner is starting," Damien breaks his line of sight to address Finch and Asahi, struggling to maintain a smile but pushing through anyway, "As much as I might be fine with his job, I think it's time I excuse myself. I have to catch up with an old friend."

"It was a pleasure, Ash, maybe we'll see each other again."

Damien's eyes find Kaden and they stay there for several too-long seconds, searching the man's own brown ones for... something. He doesn't know. Signs that he'll be alright, maybe. Eventually, he reaches out, brushing the consigliere's sleeve, "Stay safe."

Then the ex-cop walks off.
 
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If they really were a pair, could they ever hope to have a real life together?
Whatever family life Asahi grew up with clearly left him stunted and odd. Not a killer, but not necessarily a regular person either. Realistically, compromising can only go so far.

Kaden's thoughts are turned elsewhere when the speaker takes the stage.
The bear's a foreboding presence, as much as an old man can be. As far as speaker's go, he's not terrible or significant. It's Damien's sudden interest that pulls Kaden's attention.
Suddenly, Finch feels himself gripped by a similar focus.

Is this him?

Is this Moore?

The jokes feel like a slap in the face. The polite laughs bring a hidden glare to the wolf's face. Does no one know what kind of fraud the man is?
Does no one know he stole the lives of two innocent men to be where he is now?
The surge of righteous fury, as unearned as it is has Finch tense.

If his own life works out so poorly will Kaden be able trade his feelings of confusion and uncertainty for Damien's focus and rage? When the ex-convict is triggered he becomes a machine, Kaden turns brittle like ice.

He hadn't doubted Damien in the past, so much as warned him where this rabbit hole would go. Now Finch wishes such a path could be available for himself.
He'd so much rather feel nothing again, but if that's the only alternative he'll take it gladly.

There stands the man that turned Damien's life to ash receiving handshakes and applause and all Damien does is clap and wait.
Actually, Kaden realizes with a barely suppressed flinch that the man is looking at him. He can't decipher why from his eyes. Is there hesitance? Doubt?
This is what the man's waited fifteen years for.

The man gives him a final touch before leaving, a request to stay safe.
So many final words crash together on his tongue that nothing comes out. Finch just stares as he leaves.

Kaden doesn't know if the same person will ever come back. He watches his back until he disappears in the throng of bodies.

"Well," the Nakurra cub murmurs, "he's nice. I gather he's not joining us for dinner though That's... probably for the best."

No one's ever been able to cuff Asahi in the head for stupid remarks or thinking out loud. When Kaden craves silence, the boy makes that as obvious as ever.
There was always a substantial chance it wasn't going to work out. They have different lives to lead.

Finch the Butcher has to put it out of his mind.

He is alone in this.

"C'mon," the boy becons with a sigh, "it's time to talk to the dragon man."

---

The meeting takes place on the upper floor, in a private banquet hall.
The sudden muffled din of the party beneath them makes Kaden's ears ring. All along one wall large, ornate windows allow vision of the city through. In a word, it's grand.
No doubt this room has been used to host weddings and its own share of parties.

Now there is only one small table. Several men, both Dog and Nakurra, but none of them are seated at the table.
Only one stands there, waiting patiently. Kenji Nakamura.

Kaden stalks forward, flanked by the puppy-like Asahi that quiets immediately under his father's sudden gaze.
The old crime lord isn't intimidating on his own, but the power he weilds is substantial and it shows in the way he holds himself despite his age. Notably, the man isn't wearing a masquerade mask.

Decidedly, Kaden taps at the bud in his ear, silencing himself.

Despite the gala's cuisine being American - vegan roast beef and mini potatoes, the Nakurra have dressed their table with their own ethnic fair.
Finch suspects it's Kenji's way of establishing a sense of control and dominance over the meeting.

And perhaps to unease guests with the blatant display of culinary sadism.

The irony of having live food at an animal's rights banquet isn't lost on Kaden.
Half fried and boiled frogs twitch on a plate, wiping precariously placed garnishes from their bubbling skin.
Various species of octopi squirm in their liquid, confused and curious to their situation. If left alone for too long they may very well find their freedom, but Kaden doubts that that will be allowed to happen.

Kenji sucks on his stump of a cigarette before placing it in the gapping mouth of a flopping fish. Remarkably, it keeps the stick upright. The faintest bit of smoke washes through it's gills on each useless inhale.

What little appetite Finch had is washed away.

"It is good to see you," the old man blatantly lies. He bows before seating himself. Kaden has learned the deeper the bow, the more polite. The crime boss barely dips his head.
In some instances, friends or close acquaintances will give such a casual gesture. Finch doesn't think that's the case here.

"Where is your boss? And take that-" Kenji rubs with a grimace at his temple- "off."

Kaden's barely seated when the man asks.
Hiccuping over this answer could cost him. Hesitant to give up the illusion of safety, Finch sets the wolf aside.
Asahi follows suit, nearly dropping the panda in his hurry to comply.

"She elected not to join us."

Kenji stares at him, hard. Speaking Japanese he gestures for one of his henchmen.
At the speed and ease in which they speak, the Black Dog can only get the gist of what is spoken.
The crime lord is requesting a translation.
It's not particularly kind to use big words, but if Kenji's going to have living food dumped on his plate than Kaden's going to use all the high brow vernacular he likes.

"Is the Nakurra so little a threat to you Dogs she can't meet face to face with us anymore?" The crime boss demands. Using chopsticks he grips one of the octopi, dips it upside down in a plate of black sauce and bites it's head off like it's a piece of fruit.

The tentacles spasm, wrapping around the length of the sticks.
Kenji grabs a napkin to dab at the ink staining his lips.

Kaden bites his tongue on the abrupt reply that first comes to mind.
"Why?" He asks instead. "Has the Nakurra gotten weak?"

The crime lord is able to guide each writhing tentacle into his mouth. A stubborn one latched alongside his cheek is easily plucked free.
The man does it all gracefully and cleanly.

"Do not play games with me. The Nakurra has been your shield for years. You know this."

"I do," he agrees dryly, "which is why I suggest the Black Dogs finally repay you for your years of defense by bolstering your forces and taking the fight to the High-Rise together."

Kenji stare daggers at Finch. After a moment of hesitation he signals to his henchmen once more.
After a short back and forth the crime lord sinks back into his seat.

"You are suggesting the same thing as the last time we met."

Finch nods firmly.

"What if I told you the proud Nakurra would rather die than fight with the sister gang that has let them starve for a decade?" Kenji tests.

"Then I would say the proud Nakurra will die."

It's at this point little Asahi makes himself heard by leaning forward into the discussion.
"Dad, the Black Dogs don't owe us anything. I think we should accept this offer."

Kenji slaps his hand on the table, making the octopi shrink up and the cigarette fall from the fish's babbling mouth.
"You do not speak on matters you do not understand, child! You listen and maybe learn before it is too late to learn."

Asahi shrinks back, sinking into his chair.

"You are proposing something like... Like civil war," the old boss declares once he's found the right words.
"Do you understand that would bring the police upon us? Both gangs would be destroyed!"

"I am almost certain the High-Rise won't retaliate. They have never been outright violent. If we show them we're willing to fight they will concede stolen territory back."

"I won't risk more of my blood on a Black Bitch hunch!"

Even in the privacy of the dinner hall Finch's imagines some guests will have heard the man's roar.

The boy is desperate to help, to find his place. Kaden knows not to talk, not to prod the bull.
Asahi doesn't know. He opens his mouth.
"The alternative is they take more territory and we're pushed out, dad. We're not strong enough-"

Whatever the boy was going to say is interrupted by a slap across his face. The Nakurra cub yelps, hand to his cheek.

"Anata wa yowakute orokana kodomodesu," the old man spits.
(You are a weak and stupid child.)

Asahi's eyes water, still in shock. This may be the first time he's ever been physically abused.

"He is not our friend," Kenji continues, in English.
"He wants to eat you. Alive, if he must."

Hand shaky with anger, Kenji stabs at another octopus. With a meaty slap, the animal lands not on his plate but the plate of the little Nakurra's.
Asahi looks in wide-eyed horror at the helpless mollusc.
"Eat," Kenji orders, pointing.

"Kenji-san," Finch interrupts, swallowing.
"Watashi no yūjō o shinjinainara, watakushijishin no ikinokoritai to iu ganbō o shinjite kudasai...Watashi mo tabe raretakunai."

(If you can't trust my friendship, trust my own desire to live. I don't want to be eaten alive either).

Friendship perhaps is too presumptuous, but he can't think of a more fitting alternative on such short notice.
Overall, his Japanese feels clunky, but Finch hopes the sincerity in a poorly spoken plea will work for him better than a fluent speech.

"Onegaishimasu, otōsan," Asahi adds pleadingly.
(Please, dad).
Whether it's for the alliance or not to eat the octopus, Kaden can't be sure.
Normally Delilah would be here. It's so unnatural to be here without her, to speak on behalf of the whole gang himself.
What if he's wrong about this? What if he's making a mistake?

The crime lord exhales nasally, considering.
 
The fox is both prey and predator, right? That's what Kaden had said.

At last, Damien finds himself in the role of a predator as he shifts between the moving crowd, eyes never leaving his target. It's almost exhilarating, this feeling that grips his being - anticipation at having a morsel he's craved for 15 years be right in front of him, so close he can taste it. Well, maybe not right in front, since there is a sea of bodies between the ex-convict and Moore. The beginning of the gala has been officially announced with the start of dinner, yet some people go about things languidly, pausing the bear in his tracks to greet him, talking to him for varying lengths of time. Damien imagines they're heaving platitudes onto the impromptu speaker for his mediocre speech, trying to ingratiate themselves with this man in a favorable position. Cause that's what these events are really about, aren't they? For building connections. And for holding meetings between gangsters.

The longer this goes on, the more cynical the ex-cop becomes. It's annoying, primarily because surrounded by people as he is now, Moore remains inaccessible. The fox steels his resolve - he's waited an eternity for this opportunity, he won't lose his cool in the final stretch. He can wait a couple more minutes.

The worst offender for holding Tom captive is the peacock. The two evidently know each other, acting like old friends, literally. They're probably about the same age. Simons takes up his attention unapologetically, while the other guests are left to wait their turn in line, including her own gaggle of followers. Damien bites the inside of his cheek.

Is the dove anywhere close by?

Much to his chagrin, she is - a little bit away from the group surrounding the two event organizers. Though she's leaning on her leg in a relaxed manner, there's a certain anxiety and impatience to her posture, like she feels unwelcome in this grand space. The way she fidgets with the lace on her dress only confirms her discomfort. Damien's eyes shift to Moore, still locked in conversation, before gazing back at the dove.

This is a stupid move.

He absolutely should not approach her.

He has a mission to focus on...

The man's footsteps silently move along the floor before he finds himself standing behind the woman. In her absentmindedness, she hasn't noticed his approach. The ex-cop reaches up to the device in his ear, muting himself, then leans down to whisper in her ear.

"I don't know how the fuck you got in here, but I suggest you leave, Eli."

Ah. That had sounded more like a threat than he intended.

Considering that, it's commendable how Eleonora manages to maintain her composure enough not to lash out with a shout, though she still visibly flinches and swivels around. Coming face to face with the fox visage inches away from her and seemingly recognizing her brother's voice, her fear at the "threat" doubles. How awful must it be, for her to have to meet him again so soon. He should have stayed away.

"Damien?" Eli hisses, cringing at her own voice. She is gripping the edge of her dress, head quickly swiveling from side to side in embarrassment that someone might notice. Her tone drops down to a whisper, "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same. Why are you here?"

The way the ex-convict emphasizes the word 'you' seems to get on her nerves, and Eleonora straightens out her posture in a challenge, "I was invited. By my boss."

Her boss? Damien quirks an eyebrow in some surprise. Eli has been orbiting around Jasmine all night long. Is she a damn defense attorney?

"You work for the Simons Group?"

"I do," she holds her head high at that statement, sneering back "I'll ask again, why are you here? Did you sneak in? And who are you to tell me to leave?"

Why should she leave? Damien had blurted that part out without meaning to. There's no real reason for his sister to exit the gala.

Is it maybe because he knows the Nakurra and Black Dogs are around somewhere? The thought makes cold chills run up and down his arms, forcing him to clench his fists. No, nothing is going to go wrong with the negotiations. This is a civil event, the criminals have to behave. And Finch can handle himself. He'll be alright.

Still, Eli's presence at the gala makes some instinct in his gut flare up, and Damien allows himself a sigh. The siblings both talk to each other in such a cruel manner, but if he wants her to listen he's going to have to temper his tone, "You don't have to listen to me, you're a grown woman. It's just my advice that you turn in early tonight. Events like this get irritating fast, anyway."

Eleonora doesn't relax at his words, but she doesn't talk back immediately either. It's a shame the dove mask hides her features. Eventually, the woman speaks, not with distaste for once, "Can you imagine what mom and dad would think to see both their children at a gala like this one?"

Damien grins, "Oh, they'd be hysterical."

In his periphery, the ex-convict sees the peacock approaching in her bright dress, apparently having occupied Moore for long enough. He doesn't say goodbye to Eli, merely throws her one last glance before moving to shadow Thomas on his path out of the ballroom. This is it. Damien has to put thoughts of his sister out of his mind.

As well as thoughts of Kaden.

---

With dinner starting, the last stragglers among the guests are streaming into the event space awaiting entertainment, or upstairs to more private dining areas, clearing out the hotel's halls. The only two figures walking against the current are the bear and the fox.

This is a more favorable situation than Damien could have ever dreamt of - Moore is actively isolating himself. It probably has something to do with the subtle nervousness he'd had on stage, which has now turned into light perspiration on his forehead. The retired police chief tugs at his collar with a huff as he limps forward. It's one thing speaking before a police precinct full of your subordinates, and an entirely different ordeal having to open an elite charity event on short notice. Tom is headed towards the restrooms for a quick refresher, and Damien is stalking him at a distance.

The ex-cop doesn't turn his comms device back on to reach out to Cade, not entertaining the idea for even a second. He's doing this on his own.

The exhilaration from earlier is back.

Moore disappears into the men's bathroom. Damien unbuttons his grey jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders. He drapes it over one arm so that it fully covers his hand - the one in which he's holding the engraved gun, retrieved from its hidden compartment in the same fluid motion.

The ex-convict pushes the door open, following inside. Much like everywhere else in the expensive hotel, the space is clean and stylish, with the same uniform art deco designs. It's also quiet, save for the running water from one of the furthest faucets. There, Moore is hunched over, mask left to the side as he washes his face.

A long mirror hangs above the row of sinks, and the mirror man moves in tandem with the ex-convict in his approach, footsteps echoing. There's no one else in here but the two men, so Moore must find it odd when the stranger elects to stand beside him. It must be an even odder sensation to feel the barrel of a silencer press into your back.

The retired police chief straightens out, his back stiffening. Before he can say anything, his assailant speaks first.

"Remain calm," Damien's voice is a low rasp, "Make a sound or any sudden moves, and I'll shoot you in the kidney."

Moore's face is uncovered, his reflection fully visible - shock and dread overtake his wisened features before he schools his expression into a more neutral one, though his jaw remains clenched. He tries to turn his neck to see the man threatening his life, before realizing it's easier to simply stare into the mirror, at the fox mask peeking behind his shoulder.

"Who are you? What do you want?" the gun presses into his back again, reaffirming its presence. As expected of the old policeman, he remains calm.

"A rental car is waiting for us outside, a little down the street. You'll pay for it. You'll also drive it."

Tom frowns, "Don't think I can do that. I've already had some to drink-"

"Don't be dramatic, Moore. You've had a glass or two of white wine," Damien retorts as if he hadn't pathetically gotten drunk off red wine himself recently. Thomas has always been a heavyweight drinker, unlike the ex-cop. Regardless, his blood alcohol contents can't be that high this early in the night. Still, if he's so insistent on sobering up... Damien takes a peek at his wristwatch.

"I'll give you 10 minutes. Start chugging," the ex-convict nods towards the sink, water running out of its unclosed tap.

"What?" Moore splutters in indignation.

"I said start chugging."

---

Moore's mask is back on, but his shirt front is slightly drenched and he's being escorted outside by a man with a firearm pointed at him. It's a pathetic display, though no one looking from the outside would know it. It looks like the retired chief of police is feeling unwell, and a good samaritan has come to his aid, even graciously carrying his heavy coat - the one Damien had denied Thomas the opportunity to put on, lest he tries anything fishy. The weather outside is cold, but the walk to the car isn't so long he's going to freeze. Neither will the ex-cop.

They leave the premises without issue, with a passing "Good night, boys" at the door staff from Moore. The guards do look a little puzzled at the proximity of the younger man to the organizer. Another possible interpretation of the situation might be that he's an escort. Wouldn't that be a delicious scandal? The philanthropist and upstanding citizen Thomas Moore is last seen exiting the Winter Charity Gala with an unidentified man under his arm, never to be seen again. Maybe the two left for South America or Europe, or anywhere else really. The end result is he has abandoned his wife and family for an affair. The media would have a field day speculating.

"Took you long enough," the driver from the car rental service grumbles when his two clients appear. His displeasure is quickly curbed when Moore pays him, leaving a generous tip at Damien's command. There are brief instructions on when and where to return the vehicle, before the guy leaves, handing over the keys to the black range Rover with its tinted windows.

"Get in. We're going for a ride."
 
"You know what I believe?"

The chair creaks as Kenji leans into Kaden's side.
His breath prickles Finch's skin. The hair on the back of his neck raises.

"I believe the Black Dogs are weak," Kenji murmurs into Kaden's ear.
"I've heard rumors Delilah-kun is dead."

Kaden's hand twitches where it's resting on the table. He takes a breath in, but can't let it out.
The wolf lies scowling empty daggers at the ceiling. A desperate octopus feels at it's tufted glass fur with a thin tapered tentacle.
Asahi sniffles desperately, curled up where he is.

"Those are rumors," Kaden says, hoping he sounds more convincing than he feels.

"I know a lost son when I see one," Kenji murmurs. He stays like that, sending suppressed tremors down Kaden's back.
Then, finally, the man falls back into his own chair. Some of the tension in the Dog's back snap like bow strings, but not enough.

"Finally," the old Nakurra wheezes, searching his coat for a cigarette.
His henchmen lights it when it's placed in his mouth.
"The Black Dogs know what it's like to suffer."

A lost son.

Finch grinds his teeth together, but otherwise stays seated, remains calm.
His gang fairs far better than the Nakurra that's been chipped away at for years. Finch wants to tell the old man that, wants to scream it.
He's better than he is! Younger and fiercer.

But fighting each other will be a useless disaster. Not when there are bigger beasts in the woods.

"You're a good boy," Kenji says, not kindly but as if he's stating fact.
Kaden makes eye contact with Asahi, who's cheek is blazing red.

The old Nakurra blows a puff of smoke from his lungs.
"If I had a second son, a mean one, I would want him to be like you. My indoor boy to be pretty and empty headed a daughter-" Kenji strokes Asahi's trembling head like he's a pet animal.

"And my out door boy to be a man."
Kenji doesn't dare stroke Kaden, but he gestures to him with a hand all the same.
He feels his skin crawl at the gross implication of being this man's animal... Or son.
Kaden can't quite understand and he wonders if there's a mistranslation or if Asahi has been raised as an extension of Kenji rather than a child his whole life.
He looks at Ash under a new light.

"We will join forces," the old man states. "If I die it will be with honor cutting down my enemies."

The victory is relief in his tightly knotted stomach.
Kaden doesn't sag into his seat, but he does hear the wood give a protesting creak as he exhales.
For the first time since Delilah went missing, the capo has found solid ground.
He's landed.

The fog is clearing.

It's odd, almost dreamlike.
A little red dot has found itself on the dinner table, on the arm rest of Asahi's chair.
While it travels up the boy's front in a slow, wobbling line Finch's tired brain supplies a memory of Pawl chasing a red laser for Cade's amusement.
Paws smacking the ground in her chase, eyes zeroed in on a target that can't be caught or killed.

She had made that pleasant sound cats do when they're happy; a meow mixed with a contented rubbling purr.
She had been hunting. Such a charming activity was Pawl seeking out blood.

Finch is moving before he realizes it, bolting from his seat.
The adrenaline twangs through his muscles, setting him ablaze.
Leaping, he crashes into Ash, sending dishes to clatter into pieces on the floor. The pieces fall like a hailstorm, like the stars above falling, sparkling.

Perhaps those octopi will find freedom.

The bullet isn't met with thunder, it's an unimpressive fwwip through the air.
It shattered one pane of glass on its way here.

Ash squirms beneath him. A tiny sound comes from the boy, his lungs flattened by Finch's tackle.
The bullet shattered more than glass.

"Dad!"

The cigarette drops from Kenji's gaping mouth.
Staring down at his chest, a darkness grows, wet and black.
Stumbling the crime lord leaves his chair, only to fall to the floor.

Ash weasels out from under Kaden, rushing to his father. The boy plants shakey hands on his father's chest.
"You're bleeding. You're bleeding so much..." The cub mumbles, words nearly lost as the gang members rip their guns free, scattering from their positions.

Rather than move to cover, Black Dog and Nakurra point their weapons at one another.
Kaden and Ash are in the middle.

"What do I do, dad?" Ash looks down at his bloody hands, presses down harder.
"Tell me what to do...I dunno what to do."

Kenji burps blood, gasping for breath that won't come with the force of his chest being pressed on.
With the hole in his lungs.

The dying Nakurra manages one word.
"I-" Ash is yanked down by the old man's grip. It falters a second later when the determination in Kenji's eye dry up.
His eyes stare vacantly as his head falls back with a wet slap into the growing red puddle. Ash is let go.

"Anata wa kare o koroshita, kuzu!" The henchman that had translated screams, leveling a gun at Kaden.
(You killed him, scum).

"Back the fuck off." One of the Dog's growls, and the others repeat the sentiment.
 
---

As much as Moore is keeping his gaze trained on the road, every now and again he chances a glance out of the corner of his eye at the man in the passenger seat. The one still wearing the fox mask. The one that has a handgun pointed at him while giving memorized instructions on where to drive.

It's precisely by learning this specific route to the docks by heart that Damien can allow himself not to pay too much attention to where the car is headed, keeping his stare focused on the driver in case he does anything. Not that Moore has many options. The ex-convict had him empty out his pockets before they set out, and now his personal effects lie sprawled out on the dashboard. No weapons, just a phone, wallet, ID. The jewelry is there too - a heavy watch, several rings, and a chain that'd hung around his neck. What expensive, gangster-like accessories. With his rolled-up sleeves and slicked-back grey hair, he'd actually looked like a mafioso. It makes sense, given the context of his alliances. Or maybe this has always been Tom's style and Damien is bringing biases into it.

"So," the ex-cop starts, his monotone somehow adding to the quiet of the ride instead of breaking it, "You not going to ask me who I am again? Or what I want?"

Thomas frowns, audibly tightening his grasp on the leather of the wheel. Not in fear. In unease.

"I recognize you now," in the oppressive silence, Moore's hazel irises land on the fox once more. The masked man holds his breath. The building anticipation is almost unbearable. The words that follow are honey to his ears, "You're Damien Blumental, aren't you?"

At hearing his name spoken back by his old captain, the ex-cop feels a giddiness rise up in his chest. He's glad Moore remembers. That means he isn't just a passing footnote in the life of the one that has caused so many people he cares about so much irreversible pain.

Damien smirks, "And what do I want, Moore?"

"I don't fucking know, kid," Thomas sighs deeply, "Didn't even realize you'd gotten out of prison."

He calls the haggard middle-aged man Damien's become 'kid', the same way he used to when Blumenthal was a part of his precinct. It's a familiar tone - warm, welcoming in that deep baritone on his. Fake.

"Of course you didn't know I was out of prison. Very few people know... You sure you can't guess what I want Moore? Give it a try, it's not that difficult."

"I mean, look at you. The High-Rise sure has been keeping you fed over the years. Been lavishing you with money too. When exactly did you become their bitch? Was it when you decided to sell Kell and me out or were you already working with them before we were even hired on?"

Thomas' eyes widen, jaw clenching, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't insult me, Moore. I know you worked with them. I know you were involved in Michael's killing."

"Is that what this is all about?" he has the audacity to sound surprised.

"Yes, that's what all this is about!" Damien snarls back, a bit louder than intended. He reigns himself back with a breath. He has to keep cool, it's almost over.

"We suspected an insider was working with them, but to think it was you... Was it worth it, Tom?"

"What now, kid? You finally found your way to freedom and you're back to chasing ghosts? You're gonna get yourself killed, Damien."

"I asked you a question..."

"Worst of all, you haven't changed at all. Still messing with things you don't understand," Moore huffs. There's almost a smile in his expression as he keeps putting on those fatherly airs of his, "If it wasn't me, it would have been someone else, someone arguably worse. You don't know these people, Damien. At least with me at the head, I had some semblance of control. Enough to do good."

"Does telling yourself that help you sleep at night?"

That earns him a hard glare.

"So, what? Do you intend to kill me for working with them?"

Damien doesn't deign that with an answer, "Do you keep any correspondence with the High-Rise? Any documents you have hidden somewhere?"

Moore continues staring, eyebrows still furrowed, "I do, somewhere secure that no one knows about. You can have them if you let me go."

"You're in no position to be making demands, Tom."

The older man scoffs.

"You ungrateful little cocksucker," Moore growls in a voice Damien has never heard from the man, "Biting the hand that saved you. You should be crying tears of joy to have somehow managed to get out of prison and move on to live a quiet, boring life until that smoking habit catches up to you and you die of lung cancer."

Ah, like any real dad, he's berating him.

"I misjudged your intelligence, Blumenthal. For such a bright boy you were an idiot even back then. Both you and Kell. I told you two to stop sticking your noses up places they didn't belong. Tried to stop you every chance I had," the tirade ends with another squeeze of the wheel, "This could have been avoided if you'd just listened, Damien."

That's the truth, isn't it?

"Michael wanted us to quit the investigation. Right before you hired that woman - that child - to kill him."

Moore is looking over again - he's been paying way too little attention to the road, but Damien doesn't care at the moment. For all the ways his old captain comes off, the current look in Tom's eyes is the first thing to give the ex-cop pause - a deep, genuine pity and bewilderment, "What are you talking about, Damien? I didn't hire anyone."

"Cut the crap, she gave you away. Genevieve, though I doubt that's her real name. An assassin. You hired her to get rid of Mike."

"I really don't know what you're talking about, kid... By the time I got involved, they'd already decided to get rid of you both. The only decision I had input on was... well..."

He's lying. He must be lying. The goal Damien had been chasing grows in distance in his mind, yet he latches onto it, digging in his teeth. He grips the S&W with both hands when only the one starts shaking. He can't let this bullshit get to him.

"How did you decide which one of us to get rid of?"

Moore remains quiet for a time, eyes filling with pity once more. It's an unbearable feeling, "It was one or the other, Damien."

Ah, like any real dad, he'd been playing favorites. And he'd made the wrong choice.

Damien doesn't get to react to anything Thomas is saying before a siren sounds from behind them, red and blue lights flashing on the pavement in the smaller street they'd ended up in. It's a patrol car. Shit. Had Moore been driving too fast? Neither man had been paying much attention to the car, and now the ex-convict was going to suffer for his oversight.

"Do you have your driver's license?"

"In the wallet-"

Damien hands it over. "Act natural, If you try anything..." he lowers the S&W, meaningfully pressing it into Moore's side, "Behave and maybe we'll talk about those documents of yours again."

The older man nods.

The sound of a car door opening and slamming shut reaches the ex-cop's ears. From the passenger side, he can't get too good of a view of this police officer, but they carry themselves with a certain easy-going bravado. Great. It's gonna be a chatty one. Looking out his own wing-view mirror, Thomas appears like he might recognize the person. That could be a good thing for getting away quicker. Just in case, Damien reminds him of the gun's position.

The figure is still walking over, taking their time. They've even started whistling - how exasperating. The sound grates at the inside of Damien's head, making him grimace. It's nearly headache-inducing. It takes him a second to realize that... he recognizes it.

The cop is at the window now, casually tapping at it, face still out of sight. Moore obliges without question, beginning to lower the glass.

Damien's lizard brain is screaming at him to run. For the first time in forever, he agrees with it. His free hand reaches for the door handle.

Thomas is in the process of saying "Good evening" when a gun presses into his face. Two muffled shots fire into the night.
 
"Wake up." Now it's the cub that grips at his father. The boy sniffles, shaking Kenji.
"...I need you."

"It was going to hit me..." Ash presses his shaky hands to his face when his father refuses to rise.
When Ash pulls away the upper part of his face is painted red, like a mask.
Tears draw pink lines down his face.

"It was going to hit me..." He says up to Kaden, hopelessly.

The gun in Finch's hand feels heavy. He nearly reaches for the boy's shoulder, but a snapping growl from a Nakurra stops him.
A second shot from the sniper should have taken Ash out by now, or even Kaden.
The shooter isn't law enforcement.

The waiting; it's the worst part.

The boy bends over his father again, to mourn and soak in the fleeting warmth.
Or at least, that's what Kaden anticipated.

Ash whips around, brandishing his father's gun.
It's the cub's inexperience with a weapon that saves Kaden from catching a belly full of lead. The safety's still on.
It doesn't stop the instinct sewn into Finch's being. He fires.
A flinch shifts his aim and the bullet dances across the cub's cheek, taking a chunk of ear with it.

Like a race of chaos being signaled to start by a bullet fired, the hall erupts into gunfire.
Finch upends the dinner table completely, ducking behind it. It's sorry cover but it's all he can do under such short notice.

"Damien?" Kaden holds a hand to his ear, but there's no reply.
Another bullet whizzes by his ear, straight through the wood. The empty channel buzzes in his head.

"Cade?" Finch tries again. Across from him a bullet strikes through the foot of a Dog hiding behind a pillar.
The man cries, stumbling only a few inches from cover.
A second bullet through his jaw and then head cuts the cry short. Another body joins the floor.

The henchman that had been at Kenji's side drags Ash to his feet, shoves him to the exit through the hail fire.

"Already on my way," Cade huffs in his ear, the muffled screaming from below coming in clearly through the ear piece.

"The Nakurra have us boxed in and pinned down." Kaden peaks around one side, wincing when wood splinters stab at his cheek.
He ducks to the opposite side, riddling a Nakurra with bullets.
The man falls, but not before his trigger finger tenses and hits his partner through the throat.
Two for one.

That's the first thing to work out all night.

"Their backs are to the door," Finch gasps once he's safely behind cover once more. He wipes at the dust in his eyes, blinking the sting away.

"You had me at 'Nakurra', Finch. Sit tight."

Cade doesn't kick the door open. He walks in like he owns the place, aiming his weapon.
At Finch's signal, his Dogs cease fire.
There's a momentary confusion on the Nakurra's side, a light hearted, 'have we won?'

They drop, one by one.
In one fluid movement Cade crouches to collect the thrown weapon of a gangster, never ceasing his firing.
At this range, he can dual wield with little loss in accuracy.
The air becomes tangy with the taste of iron. Finch has heard stories of men too terrified of their enemies to move, standing in place like deer caught in headlights.
He's never seen it so well displayed until this very moment. Human evolution dissolves into less than instinct as the men are cut down like livestock.

Cade is one man, but it's over before it even started.

Cade's gun clicks when he gets to the head of the last bumbling Nakurra.
Unfazed, the man slashes the weapon into the rival gangster face.
It's the closest Cade has come to using brass knuckles.
Like an animal, the rabbit follows through, beating the man until they both fall to the floor.

Straddling the enemy, the rabbit bashes his gun into the Nakurra's face, again and again.
Each time the strikes fall with a wetter sound.

"How's it fucking feel?!" Cade howls, slamming his gun into the gurgling ground meat.
Pieces of skin come away with the pistol's handle when Cade pulls back for another brutal attack. Teeth tink softly as they are bashed from their homes.

"You like that?!"

When there's less than nothing left, the Dog finally stops.
The gangster wheezes, resting a hand on the man's chest so he can crane his head back and breathe.
Cade bays excitedly to the ceiling, shaking his head in a frenzied, dog like way.
Then he gasps for breath, bleeding the energy from his body.

The red stained rabbit, coming up for air after a reversal hunt, baptized in the new order.

Cade stands up, stumbling and shakes the blood from his hands like it's merely water.
"Where's the little shit?" He pants, wiping his cheek with a sleeve.
The man kicks over another body with his foot.
He recoils slightly when a tiny octopus squiggles by.

"Fucking shit..." He murmurs at Kenji's body. It's the only thing, aside from the mollusc to draw Cade's attention.
"Negotiations sure as shit went sour, huh?"

"He was escorted out." Kaden's fingers are feeling at the throat of one of his men.
Nothing beats against his skin.
Gently, he pulls the dog mask from his face so he can draw the man's eyes shut.
There are many bodies, almost fifteen. It feels like more than he's seen in a long time.
"I winged him."

"The kid?" Cade asks with a surprise. Kaden feels a surge of guilt. If he fired true, Ash would be dead.
Dead, next to the body of his father's and this would be dealt with.
If the Nakurra cub had been experienced in the slightest, Finch would be lying next to Kenji.
"He won't get far wounded."

Cade's stopped by Finch's grip. He glances down at the hand gripping him and Kaden feels the ripple of muscle as Cade tenses.
"We have our own wounded. The cops will be here. It's time to leave."

Cade glares into space. A tongue sweeps over his front teeth, a bit of his lip.
It misses a drop of blood, nearly.
"Yup," Cade concedes. He drops the Nakurra's gun with a moist clatter, holstering his own.

"Did you see Damien?" Kaden asks and Cade shakes his head as he goes for a still breathing body.
In an easy fireman's carry, he hoists his unconscious teammate up on his shoulders.

"He got what he wanted and he left."
 
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Damien spills out of the car in a heap, but not before being bathed in a shower of red from the bullet that goes clean through Moore's head.

The second bullet, the one meant for him, whizzes right past his ear as he falls to the ground, landing hard on his knees in a roll not intended to be graceful. No, this is a desperate crawl away from danger. How long has it been, since he's felt this afraid?

Another whistle from the cop - sounds like he's almost impressed - sends a fresh spike of dread through the ex-convict's body. His shaky hold on the S&W tightens. Damien glances at the inside of the vehicle - Moore's unclosing eyes are staring back at him, a gaping hole dead-center between them. In a similar fashion, his mouth gapes open in a final shock. Or maybe a scream.

He's dead. He's dead, and it wasn't by Blumenthal's hand.

The shape of the police officer starts to move away from the driver-side window, circling around the car. Damien should escape. What is he doing standing here? In a potentially lethal betrayal, his legs have given out on him.

"Good reflexes," Moore's assassin genuinely praises and Damien feels bile rising up in his throat, barely swallowing it down. There's an almost sign-songy quality to his soft voice.

The man finally rounds the side of the Range Rover, and you'd never guess he'd just shot his old police chief dead by the way he smiles down at Damien. The features are more aged than the ex-convict remembers, but the way he is able to shamelessly mimic human emotion hasn't changed. Neil MacDarragh's mellow grin comes into view. He of all people should not be here, wearing that uniform. He's not a real cop. He never should have been allowed to become one in the first place. Yet the badge hanging off his winter gear signifies him as a captain of the force.

"I thought being sent out here on such short notice was going to be boring. Maybe I was wrong."

MacDarragh's placid expression is distorted a tiny bit as he finally takes a good look at the man sprawled on the pavement, covered in Moore's blood. His eyebrows rise in what Damien is praying is not recognition. Frozen as his body is currently, the one defense he has left is the anonymity of the fox mask. However, the cop is not going to allow him even that much. It would have been better if Neil pointed the gun's silencer at Damien's head. Instead, he crouches down to meet grey eyes with his own green ones. His hand reaches for the mask - even from a distance, he reeks of cigarettes. It's disgusting.

Maybe it's that exact deep feeling of revolt that finally has the ex-cop's muscles reacting, not consciously to his will, but activating in a fight-or-flight instinct. He doesn't shoot MacDarragh. He clocks him in the chin with the butt of the firearm in a hard crack, throwing his head back. The police captain is dazed, taken by surprise. It lasts mere seconds. That's enough for Damien to rise from his spot in a stumble and bolt away.

---

In the quiet of the street, MacDarragh is a still shadow. It's been a while since he's gotten hit like that. He reaches up to rub at his jaw - there's a pang of pain there. An interrupting crackle comes over the police radio in his car. With an exaggerated huff, the man rises from his spot to approach the cruiser. The dispatcher is reporting a 10-10S at the Four Seasons Hotel. Shots have been fired at the gala.

Normally Neil would find the information interesting, but he's stuck doing his own pondering, a familiarity itching at his temple. The captain picks up the radio, "This is Captain Neil MacDarragh. There's been a 10-24S, one man down. Suspect is fleeing the scene on foot."

The voice of the dispatcher comes through over the static, and the cop is more than helpful in cordially providing his coordinates, the probable identity of the victim, as well as the description of the potential criminal. His amiable smile is back, though there's an added quality to it. A barely contained excitement.

The report is done within seconds, and without waiting for another beat, MacDarragh reaches for the phone in his pocket. His employers will be relieved to learn Moore's status... Yet should he keep his other hunch to himself?

---

Damien is running.

It feels pathetic, to go from predator to prey so dramatically, but what else can he do? He's barreling through the alleyways in a mad dash, lungs begging him to stop. He can't. He'll only stop when taking in oxygen is no longer physically possible. There's a dark shape nipping at his heels, and he's so terrified he can't even dare to look back.

How the fuck did things become like this?

About an hour ago, he'd been in total control, with Moore securely taken away from the gala, in the ex-cop's grasp to deal with however he decided. To exact his revenge on the man that killed Michael. Or to spare the man that had saved him. Was Tom lying about that? He'll never know. He'll never know many things. Like how the hell MacDarragh found them. Moore recognized him. Did he call him? Was there a tracker on his person? Was he wired? Did someone at the gala become suspicious at his exit?

Was the High-Rise at the gala? In a moment Damien believes he has no further capacity for fear, he proves himself wrong.

"Kaden!" he reached up to the comms device, screaming into it in a move that's incredibly dumb for someone on the run. There's no response back. Why did he expect otherwise? He's so far from the hotel already.

He's completely alone out here. For a person that values his independence as much as he does, this is the first time in his life the ex-cop has worked on something without a partner. The emptiness is almost as crushing as the panic at Finch's possible fate. Damien trips on something. Maybe himself. He doesn't know, and it doesn't really matter. The end result is all the same - he's falling again, narrowly managing to brace himself with his shoulder in a grunt. The tuxedo receives a nice coating of filth on one side, and for some reason, the ex-convict is more cognizant of that than of Moore's blood soaking into its fabric.

His lungs are grateful for the forced pause, yet the reprieve is short-lived. At the sound of sirens in the distance, Damien forces himself back up into a sprint. The dark shape is not letting up. He keeps running through the city's labyrinthine alleyways. The ex-convict doesn't think about where he's going, he just needs to get away. MacDarragh is in hot pursuit, his footsteps resounding on the concrete from behind Damien.

Wait, that's wrong. A figure comes out from an alley in front of Damien. He's found him. He's cut his escape route off.

It's muscle memory, the way the ex-cop raises his engraved gun and takes a shot. He's never taken a life before, but he's imagined it. In all of this disorientation, the bullet still manages to find its target, silencing the shouts to drop the weapon and get on the down. Relief washes over Damien. Right up until his vision clears and it's not Neil's smiling face staring up at him, gasping for air like a dying fish.

The face is not one he knows intimately, though it's vaguely familiar. Vague enough it takes a few moments to connect, but Damien understands if he were to read the boy's tag it would say Officer Conley. The young policeman is sprawled out on the wet ground, blood beginning to pool underneath him.

Damien's traitorous legs start working without his permission, shifting backward, turning away to keep running. He didn't even check if Conley was still alive.
 
The hotel grounds are drowned in red and blue flashing lights.
Paramedics swarm the area like flies to a carcass. Bodies are carried out on stretchers, blanketed in a white sheet.
From this distance, they're insects.

Kaden's safe to oversee from the confines of an empty, dingy apartment room.
Feeling with his fingers he touches the marks bitten into the window sill.
A half drunken beer set on the floor nearby is filled with used cigarettes.

Cade's close enough his breath tickles Kaden's skin as he leans in to look out the window. The man has since freshened up in the bathroom, but there's still a place or two that he's missed and allowed the blood to dry and flake.

Miming holding a rifle, the gangster mumbles softly, "Bang."
He then draws a line from his eyes to the second story of the fancy complex. From here, the floor is nothing but a smear of blue blurs and black puddles.
"You can really hit a target that far off?"

Finch breathes in, nose wrinkling at the smell of her cologne mixing with old smoke. Somewhere the woman would've kept a wind gage, perhaps a digital one. Next to the single bullet casing, there's impressions in the carpet where a tripod sat.
"She and a dozen others."

Cade whistles low and appreciative.
"That army shit is no joke, huh?"

The big boss was watching, but it wasn't to criticize Finch's performance.
Why try and have Ash killed? Yes, he was to inherit a sizable gang and fortune, but he wasn't much of a threat.
Not until tonight that is.

If Finch had made a wrong move- leapt too early -would she have gunned him down?
He was pinned under Nakurra attack and that sniper rifle only fired once.

"Delilah's no joke," he corrects coldly.

The capo brings out his phone, staring at the dot in the middle of the map.
It's nowhere near where it's supposed to be and moving at a snail's pace in the opposite direction.

Cade screen peeks and smiles tiredly up at Kaden, even as he presses the phone guardedly to his chest.
"You're a sick fuck," Cade says knowingly, and yet still completely unaware of any possible tracking devices Kaden may have put on him.

Finch exhales.
"An alliance with the Nakurra is no longer possible. We'll have to strike - hard and fast, before Asahi finds his bearings."

Cade slaps Kaden across the back, hard enough to make his teeth click.
"Ladies and gentleman, the beast is back."

Resisting the urge to rub the throbbing from his shoulder blade Kaden continues.
"Have a few men bring Damien home. Use force, if necessary, but I don't want him concussed."

Cade scoffs. His previous energy evaporates into a dark storm. "We're talking turf war and you still want me on babysitting duty? C'mon, Finch, I think I proved tonight I'm better than that."

He... Did. He really did. A look of doubt brings another huff from Cade. His hands drop to his sides with a slap.

"I don't need any fucking help. I'll do it myself," Cade says, turning away. He pries the ear bud from his head, tossing it to Kaden's feet.
"Guy should change his name to Damsel Blumenthal."

"No," Kaden blurts, "I need you with me."

Cade stops, his back to Finch. Something in the air between them morphs, becomes a different beast. Kaden shifts his weight from foot to foot, swallowing.
Cade turns, slowly, holding up a finger.
"Ohh, I see what's going on here. You're leapfrogging."

"No, I - " Kaden starts, even though he's not quite sure what the phrase even means or why he's hesitating.

"No, you are. Damien was your pet project for a while but he's been your security blanket for a week and a half too."
Cade takes a step or two forward, his heavy boots thudding softly in the carpet. Finch squints at the man's puffed chest, the jut of his jaw. The man's posturing, like Jackie had.
"Now it's me."

This once, Cade smiles with his eyes instead of his teeth.

He closes the distance, gets on his toes so he can speak softly into Finch's ear.
"I saved your ass and now you need me to feel safe, is that it Butcher? You like having a big strong man around?"

Jackie didn't do this.

Kaden finds Cade's hand. The Dog tenses, glances at him. Finch doesn't see so much as hear the man wetting his lips with a pink slip of tongue.
Finch presses his thumb to the back of his hand, fingers curling around the rest.
Cade frowns, blinking in confusion.
"What're you-"

The sudden twinge that rides through the Dog's wrist is enough to shut him up when Finch pulls his hand back, nestled between them.

Finch perfects the angle, the placement of the wrist lock. With the pressure and the force applied to the wrist Cade has to lean into it. First a shoulder, and then the man crashes to a knee to relieve the pressure. He's lucky this apartment is carpeted with the force his kneecap makes with the floor.

"Not tonight, Cade," he says impassively to the man at his feet. The Dog glares at him but when Kaden doesn't flinch, he looks elsewhere.

"If Damien is something I want to fuck, then that is what he is," Kaden says coldly, blinking.
"If he's only good company, then that is what he is. I shouldn't have to justify my appetites to someone beneath me."

"You said after tonight you were fucking done with-" Cade's unasked for reply is bitten off by a pained groan.
Damien said they were done, after being fenced into it by Cade, and even offered further support despite the needling. Finch never said anything about it one way or another. He doesn't much care for words being put in his mouth.

"If I didn't need your shooting hand, I'd break this."

Cade winces, sucking air through his teeth as Finch bends his wrist a fraction more.
The defiance leaves his eyes in a rapid blink.

"Why do you make me do this, Cade? You know how I repay insubordination, and yet you test me. And now of all times," Finch murmurs softly. Slowly, he lowers into a squat to be eye level with his second in command. Cade trembles, but otherwise meets Finch's eyes.

"I haven't appreciated you for the work you've done, even if it was overstepping," he murmurs. Sweat is building on Cade's brow.
"You're still my second in command."

"...Am I?" Cade challenges weakly.

Kaden leans in. "Damien's a parakeet I like to hear sing. You're my near equal."

Cade looks uncertainty up at Kaden. He swallows, shifts further in to reduce the pressure. Kaden follows the movement to keep the pain consistent.
"And I'll kill you if you ever come close to touching me like that again."

Kaden releases his hold, standing up to his full height to tower over Cade.
The man clutches his wrist, panting.
The look in the man's eyes say he wants to argue that he in fact didn't touch Finch, but knows this is not the time.

"Go home, but don't spread the news yet, not until I'm ready. The last thing I need is the Nakurra anticipating us."

---

Finch glances periodically at his phone.
The little dot blinking in the middle of the screen still isn't where it should be.
Kaden slows to a stop as yet another cop car races by, lights flashing.

Damien hasn't returned any of his calls either.
Did he not make himself clear on that front? It is not the night to test him.

He frowns, tapping the wheel with a finger as the red and blue haze fade into the distance.

---

Damien dumped the gun when he drove by.
That's the only explanation for the tracker to show up here in the middle of nowhere.

A homeless drunk stumbles past and Finch must hold his breath. If a few giant New York rats waddle past he won't be surprised.

It's sensible to rid yourself of a murder weapon. In some sense, Kaden predicted it necessary.
And yet to have the weapon he gave to Damien be tossed aside so easily... Well.

Turning on the flashlight feature of his phone, Finch continues into the dark, leaving the illuminating headlights of his car behind.

The body he approaches is no doubt another homeless person. Despite the fact killing them would most likely be a consequence free venture, Kaden's more interested in paying for the weapon.
Both sides will profit from such a venture.

He can't believe it's just... Over.

Damien got what he wanted. His mission is over.
Kaden's churns onwards, a never ending blood bath.

The man said stay safe, that was the last thing he said to Kaden. Finch didn't say anything to him.

He didn't even get to say goodbye.

He didn't know it fucking was goodbye.

Ordering men to have Damien kidnapped is easy; it's a few words. Going to Damien's home himself when he knows the man wants to be alone and dislikes having his liberties encroached upon is a different thing.

It shouldn't be, but it is.

The Black Dogs are at war and this is what he's reserving his mind for; a man that still won't call him back.
A woman that won't call him back.

Maybe Cade is right. Maybe none of it was real.

Perhaps it was all just Kaden grappling for someone to keep his head above water in light of the circumstances.
Leapfrogging, Kaden recalls with disgust.
Some of it, maybe, he'll admit that, but all of it? Really?

He called Damien a parakeet because it wouldn't have been smart to call him anything else.
But now...

Maybe he was right about himself.

Maybe Damien was something easy he could fix and dress up rather than deal with his own issues.

Well, now he's fixed.

And Kaden still isn't.

"Excuse me-" his voice dies in his throat.
Kaden recognizes the suit, as dirty as it is. He lets the light fall over the man's face.

"Damien?"
 
The man doesn't know where he's going. His legs are the ones doing all the work, carrying him forward to some unknown destination, ducking him around corners when there's the possibility of someone witnessing the state he's in. It's fine, this disconnect from reality is a welcome change, really. Hopefully, his gut will be more useful than his wits have been so far.

His legs take him slowly but surely away from danger, though there are still police sirens blaring in the background. Doubtlessly more officers will be called upon soon. He needs to find somewhere quiet to crawl into - wait for things to blow over, and gather himself back up again in order to escape. It's a familiar routine, he just needs a location.

The man's salvation comes in the form of an abandoned underpass. Truly a foxhole in every right. What little self-awareness Damien has left is starting to get sick of the animal metaphors. Still, the fact remains... this'll do. The few homeless drunks lingering around won't care for this interloper. He kind of blends in with them.

---

Red and blue lights interchangeably illuminate the small and (up until recently) quiet street. It's rare to find places like this in New York where nothing can remain still for long. Every bit of serenity is destined to eventually be swallowed up in the din of the city. The present reaffirms that truth, as police officers and paramedics hover around the Range Rover, several rushed conversations happening simultaneously.

Montesano lets out a shaky breath. She shouldn't be here.

She should be over at the Four Seasons, where her presence has been requested on the basis of her precinct. Where there has been a gang shootout. Instead, she left her family's dinner table to be at the scene of one man's murder. Natalia couldn't not come, not when news reached her that the victim is Thomas Moore, the retired police chief she'd spoken to her friend about only a week prior. Now, Moore has been executed in cold blood. And the perpetrator has accrued a second victim, in the process of being retrieved from an alleyway some ways off.

Natalia blows on her hands to banish the cold of the night. Looking up at the sky, it wouldn't be surprising if it starts snowing any second. However, deep inside the woman knows she's not shivering due to the weather.

Did Damien have something to do with this? It would be too much of a coincidence if he didn't. But this, this he couldn't have-

"Sergeant Montesano?" a voice breaks the woman away from her internal worries with a jolt. She turns around to look at the man addressing her.

---

Darkness can be comfortable.

Does that sound stupid? It's a fact, though. Hunched over in it as he is currently, the ex-convict is finally allowed to breathe. It doesn't matter that this place is cold and dingy, he doesn't mind. What matters is that it's quiet and hidden, and in it, he isn't forced to look at any part of himself.

What an unwanted disturbance, when a light is rudely shone right in his face.

Instead of his arm rising up to shield him from the sudden glare, the synapses in its nerve endings fire to extend it forward, pointing the gun at the chest of whoever the flashlight belongs to. MacDarragh's found him. Or maybe it's the partner of the kid he murdered. The latter thought is the sole thing that stops him from pulling the trigger.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, but when they do he recognizes the person standing in front of him, the voice that had called out. Some of the numbness leaves his empty stare, to be replaced by shock.

"Kaden?" his voice cracks, mimicking the question. It's a good thing Damien is still wearing a mask, cause he's pretty sure his expression cracks as well.

He doesn't stop to ponder how or why Finch is here before he's rising up from his space on the ground, holstering the firearm. He steps forward without thinking, further into the Black Dog's space than he probably should. He needs to confirm Kaden is real, unhurt.

As far as the ex-cop can inspect in the darkness, he is, at least at a glance. Even if there is some surprise in his brown eyes.

"Fuck," Damien visibly sags in relief. It's not a good feeling. It means he's going back to himself before he's been given the time to brace for the reality awaiting him. He's going to crumble. Yet, such worries are set aside for a moment, by the reality that Kaden is alive. Worrying over the gangster is a good distraction, but the happiness is also genuine, "I'm so glad you're safe."
 
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Damien has the guts to aim the gifted gun at Finch. Half an impulse makes the capo sway ever slightly.
He shouldn't ignore his instinct with a gun in his face. Even if tonight mocked that impulse he should still trust it...

But this is Damien. Stained fox mask and all, under a disgusting underpass.

He never made it to a safe house or his location.

Moore isn't here.

One hand preoccupied with the flashlight, Finch must do his physical observations himself.
He isn't limping, and a cursory prodding at Damien's most vital places don't come away wet.
Not with fresh blood, anyways.

Damien winces ever so slightly at a touch along his ribs and another at his shoulder on the same side.

It's difficult to be sure with the mask, but Damien's pupillary response seems slow when Kaden drags the light over his eyes at a distance.
It could be chemical, but with the prior nerves showing Kaden would guess it's a sympathetic nervous system that hasn't come down yet.

Something has the ex-cop frightened.

"Likewise," he says, and grips Damien's sleeve. Finch takes a step to lead him away from this place. It's cold and disgusting.
 
As expected of his demeanor, Finch is very to the point, both in checking Damien for any signs of injury and in leading him away from the underpass.

The two have barely exchanged any words before the capo starts heading towards the exit with the ex-cop trailing in tow. The man doesn't really give him any time to reorientate himself, though he is well aware he should have gathered his bearings up by now. How long has he even been in this place, hiding away? Has the police activity died down?

The memory of earlier events causes Damien to put up some small instinctual resistance, digging in his heels, as ineffective as the attempt might be - he doesn't know what or who awaits outside.

The sudden bout of anxiety makes Damien scowl, and he takes a long look at Finch. The grip on his sleeve feels grounding, and after a moment he returns the gesture.

Damien's hesitancy dies down as he starts moving willingly, stepping forward to try to keep pace with the consigliere.

"There were police in the area," he begins quietly, cringing at how vague his sentence is, like he can't own up to what happened. He corrects himself after a beat, "There were police in the area, chasing after me. But if you're here, I'll assume the coast is clear."

The exit is in sight (hopefully with Finch's car nearby beyond it), as is the form of an old drunkard slumped over against the underpass wall. Here it's warmer than the cold November outside. Not by much, but every little bit counts. Damien shivers.

"Moore is dead. I didn't kill him."
 
There's some token resistance that Kaden is able to break through by consistently pulling Damien forward.
They can't stay here.

When the man equals his pace, Kaden does not relinquish his grip.
"Hm."

Moore dying of natural causes seems unlikely.

"Who did?"
 
Behind the mask, Damien raises an eyebrow at Kaden's response. He observes the consigliere relentlessly pulling him forward.

"A cop," he answers back with a slight shudder, the act of referring to the man as a cop leaving a disgusting aftertaste. Speaking his name is even worse, "Captain Neil MacDarragh. Don't know exactly how he found us, but it sounded like he'd been sent to tie up loose ends by the High-Rise."

The nagging suspicion he and Moore had been spotted leaving the charity event and been trailed afterward returns to the ex-convict. High-Rise members might have been there. Yet, Kaden hasn't made any mention of his evening and he has no visible injuries, so Damien should assume things went fine over dinner with the Nakurra...

"What happened at the gala, Kaden? What's wrong?"
 
So there's another crooked cop on the force. That doesn't surprise Finch in the slightest.
Maybe he's biased, but he's always thought most of them were crooked.
Damien's voice catches over the man's name. This police officer is part of what's scaring him, but not all.

Tying up loose ends...

"Delilah killed the leader of the Nakurra," Kaden informs plainly. "You were right... It wasn't a test."

And he feels like an idiot for thinking so.
He clearly didn't know the woman at all. How many other things is he clueless about?

How many there were High-Rise?

"I can't understand why," he says, scowling at the dirt.
"Until I know what's happening you're staying with the Black Dogs."

Kaden pockets his phone so he can open the passenger door in the back.
Warm air flows from the dark interior.
Once Damien's home that will be one less thing to worry about.

He'll feel better once they're together again.

If this was leapfrogging, would Kaden even still want Damien after Cade proved his protective masculinity?
The capo's hand goes frozen stiff around Damiens sleeve.

This might be something worse.

Deliberately Kaden slowly shuts the door he had just opened.

The man's cold, dirty and scared. He's wearing an animal mask that makes him look like a little dog.
The man's even been chipped.

If Damien is a pet to be taken home and fed and dolted over than why does Kaden feel such comfort at the prospect? And comfort beyond the self righteous pleasure of pitying a lesser individual?
Comfort at the thought of hearing his voice, his jokes, his opinions..?
Pawl's a good woman, but Kaden's never respected her beyond her station of being a cat.

It would be painful, but he could afford to lose Pawl if he had to.

He's reaching out for Damien, taking the fox mask from his face. The porcelain is cold like ice. Damien's skin is clear where it shielded him from the violence of the night.
In this lighting, his eyes are black. The cupid's bow of his lips is contorted in a worried grimace.

Kaden pulls out his gun, the one that should have blown through Ash's head. In one fluid movement he cocks it before lifting the weapon to Damien's head.
 
Delilah?

Damien eyes Kaden in worry. The Black Dog speaks her name and betrayal plainly, voice not breaking. Did he break earlier, when Damien wasn't there to help? The cold rage settling in the ex-convict's gut is an old friend, though the guilt mixing throughout it is not. It was a mistake to split up.

The confirmation he was right makes the feeling somehow worse. Delilah's actions only muddle the already dark waters, bringing up more questions without providing meaningful answers. Hadn't it been both her and Kaden that suggested to the Nakurra to join forces? Now she kills the head of the Yakuza, doubtlessly crippling the clan and ruining any chances of an allied front against the High-Rise. It makes no sense, it's like she's working against her own people. There has to be something both men are missing - Damien needs to be run through the whole chain of events. What of Ash in all this?

Before the ex-cop can request clarifications, Kaden continues speaking.

"Staying with the Black Dogs?" Damien frowns, not because he necessarily disagrees with the arrangement, but because it's a command not expecting input on his end.

The ex-convict sighs, silencing any retorts for the time being - it's probably for the best. If... if Neil recognized him somehow, his apartment building could be crawling with police, or at the very least be surveyed. He might have been keeping a low profile since his release, yet as a parolee, there is a paper trail, even if a scarce one. Plus, he had intended to ask to work with the Black Dog anyway, "That's fine, for now."

Despite his acquiescence, Damien's concern over Finch's current state doesn't disappear. Instead, it keeps growing when the capo leads him to the back passenger seat of the car. Something's wrong, beyond Delilah. Having the mask removed unveils the ex-cop's expression, and while losing this last line of defense is uncomfortable he doesn't protest Kaden's touch. With the fox out of the way, Damien can see him better.

Just like he can see the weapon's barrel in his face. It's reminiscent of the gun pointed at Moore's head. He flinches at the memory.

It's only by reminding himself this is Kaden that Damien can anchor himself in the present. What does that have to do with anything? The consigliere is dangerous, that's a fact, yet... Damien believes he won't shoot, trust him not to. Why even unholster the firearm, then? The ex-cop had done the same minute ago, but that'd been instinctive, involuntary. He was seeing ghosts in the darkness. The capo's actions are deliberate, eyes clear if confused.

Damien doesn't duck away. He remains in place, searching Finch's face, "You just told me to stay. Why do this right after"

It's like he's testing something.

In the focus of the moment, another sobering thought crosses the ex-cop's mind, "How did you find me?"
 
There's no endearing confusion an animal might have in the same position, sniffing the barrel for treats.
Damien understands the situation, but he doesn't move. The man knows the things Finch does and who he is and he doesn't move.
It's not that Damien wants to die, although that could be argued. It's not even that Damien holds Kaden's opinion so highly he would allow himself to die if that's what the capo decided.

He trusts Kaden not to do this.

Kaden's finger rests on the trigger guard, aching.

He imagines Damien's head snapping back with a hole in it, the man's body tumbling to the ground like a puppet with it's strings cut.
He'd lie there in the snowy mud, until well into the morning when Natalia finds him.

Or this... MacDarragh.

He never got revenge for Michael. Genevieve got away and Moore was killed for something else, some trivial nonsense thing.
Damien would decompose having still lost everything and with only one person in the world to mourn him.

Or maybe two.

The pistol trembles in Finch's hand.
With a sudden gasping exhale, Kaden let's the gun drop to his side.

He can't.

He physically can't.

Staring aimlessly Kaden answers, "your gun has a tracker."

How did this happen? When did this happen?

"I didn't want to risk losing you again," he says, showing worsening symptoms.
"Fuck."

Kaden stabs a finger at the Mercedes.
"In," he orders.
 
The capo lowers the gun with a gasp. Was the test a success or a failure? Either way, Damien releases the small breath he'd been holding the longer this standoff carried on. It's gratifying, to have his trust in Kaden validated. Naively, he expected this outcome.

What he didn't expect was for the Black Dog to reveal he had a tracker placed on him.

Damien stiffens, glancing down at his hip. Of all things, the device is somewhere in the S&W given to him as a debt owed. Or is it a gift, as he keeps suspecting - this engraved gun he's been clutching onto like it's a lifeline? Finch had handed over the firearm in the ex-convict's own home, knowing full well what was on it. He'd tricked him, at a time when Damien was more vulnerable than ever.

Except for maybe now.

What emotional whiplash, to go so suddenly from satisfaction to betrayal. However, this is worse than getting tailed. It feels violating. Cruelly, Kaden doesn't allow the ex-cop even a split second of certainty in that revulsion.

I didn't want to risk losing you again.

There's that tone. Damien's lip trembles. That tracker is the only reason Kaden found him, the only reason the two are back together now.

What the fuck is he supposed to do with this information?! How the fuck is he supposed to react?!

The tension in the ex-cop's muscles releases, because he doesn't have the energy left to sustain it. Frayed as his edges are, threatening to unravel at any moment, the thing that enters Damien's mind is the dinner he'd shared with Finch, when the capo had called his tastes in men "basic". What an absurd thought. Suddenly, he snickers, the sound halfway between a sob. Damien hadn't meant to do that. In a last desperate effort to keep himself together, his hand shoots up to cover his mouth.

"Questionable fucking choices," he mumbles behind his fingers. The words are not directed at Kaden. They're directed at himself.

Damien should toss the gun away. Hell, he should just walk away, yet that's not really an option, and the reasons don't lie solely in the danger the ex-cop finds himself in. It's with great distaste he realizes he doesn't want to leave Kaden, despite everything.

"You keep doing this type of shit," his voice is quiet, muffled. He throws the consigliere one last look, "I want to watch you take the tracker out of my gun."

With that, Damien gets in the Mercedes.
 
Finch is reminded that as awful as he feels, Damien's worse.
He half suspected the man would make a fuss about the tracker, he did not predict the man choking on a mirthless laugh.

He stands there in continued confusion, poorly armed for such a precarious predicament.
Is he mad? Sad?
Finch would suspect he's in such high distress he's everything.

Finch grunts non-commitally to the ridiculous request. Damien's hurting so he won't lecture him on the benefits of trackers, but it's in the back of his mind.
Of all the people to emasculate him, it's this person.

He spares the muddy mask one final glance before he too leaves for the car.

---

The drive home is silent, awkward.
For all of Kaden's life he refused to feel socially awkward during conversational silences. Sometimes you have nothing to say, sometimes you just want silence. Why is it his responsibility to compose the music of an interaction? If the opposing individual wants to say something, has to, then they will and Finch refuses to feel any guilt until they do.

It's different with Damien.

Things hang unspoken between them and neither of them can afford to give anything else away.

Both their nights ended in failure; it's hard to find the energy to linger on it.

"Cade," Finch gets the man's attention as soon as he's through the door.
"I want a report on who's available. Keep a night sentry and double security. And... Schedule a meeting with our weapons vendor."

Cade doesn't look up from where he's stabbing a knife into a table.
"Way ahead of you. Good night."

Tweets and a dozen or so heads look up, eyes following as Kaden takes Damien up to his apartment.

---

Shoes off, coat off.
Pawl is at his feet, weaving between his legs as he walks in. Even though he mostly comes here to sleep, she still meows in indignant rage at the long hours he keeps from home.
She is blissfully unaware of life beyond this apartment and it makes her spoiled.

The ragdoll finds Damien's leg next, flopping onto his foot.

At least Kaden isn't the only one to lose himself. He lasted about as long as his cat did.

Finch is pulling at the buttons of his corset vest, breathing a sigh of relief when it comes undone. Along with it a few chips of wood shake out. He can't be bothered to pick them up.
When he stretches, multiple vertebra give a crack. His shoulders click with a slow roll.

"Tomorrow I'll have an apartment ready for you," he says, releasing the mag from his gun before setting both down next to his car keys.

In the kitchen he pours himself a glass of water, downs it all at once despite the temperature freezing his throat.
At the stretch of his mouth there's a twinge of pain. Kaden feels where his neck leads into jaw, right below his ear.
The skin there itches and throbs at the touch.

It's not the worst place to get a splinter. Better than an eye.

"You can shower first. I'll likely have something that fits you."
 
The silence of the car ride is awkward, probably more so for Kaden than for Damien. The ex-cop takes that time not just to give the capo the cold shoulder over the tracker ordeal, but to finish collecting himself. Realistically, Damien's always walking around in some state of shattering - it's been like that for 15 years. The trick is to maintain certain frames of mind that are more functional, and the biggest hurdle preventing that currently is that his goals - his targets - are both gone. Or maybe not. If what Moore claimed is true, he had nothing to do with ordering Michael's killing. Honestly, even if he was lying, it all comes back to the High-Rise. That thorn in both Damien and Finch's sides.

By the time the two leave the car and cross the Black Dogs' building's foyer, Damien is composed enough to remain unfazed under the scrutinizing eyes of Finch's henchmen. For someone whose business with the gang should be finished, he's become too common of a sight around these parts.

The ex-cop is well aware of the preposterousness of the situation, especially with how familiar Kaden's penthouse now seems, as does the man's pet. The ragdoll flopping down onto Damien's foot once inside is a delightful surprise.

"Hi again, Pawl," he greets back, crouching down to get closer to her. She rubs against his leg and that succeeds in making him smile before remembering how filthy his suit is. As much as he wants to, he doesn't dare pet her - his hands are the worst part, "You're very cute, but you'll get dirty like that."

Before Damien goes to rise, several wooden chips fall off of Kaden's person. The ex-cop furrows his brows, frowning after the consigliere moves into the apartment without disposing of them. After a moment, he decides to do that instead. It looks like he's picking up after Finch. He isn't. And it's not like he's a neat freak either - that's the capo's thing, based on his usual cleanliness. The ex-convict simply doesn't want Pawl playing around and biting at the pieces, lest she hurt herself.

Seems Kaden hasn't been lucky enough to avoid such a fate. It's difficult without his glasses, but here in the light, Damien finally notices the slight damage on Finch's cheek, worryingly close to the man's eye.

"Shit, you did get hurt," the ex-cop squints, moving in to inspect the spot Kaden had rubbed. He barely sees it, but there's a splinter there, in an uncomfortable place for one to remove on their own.

"I'll take you up on the shower offer. If you can leave out something for me to change in, that'd be appreciated," he turns to walk towards the bathroom, but not before tapping below his ear, "I'll only be 5 minutes, then I can help you with that."

---

There are a ridiculous amount of products in the capo's shower. Does Kaden use all of them? Half seem to serve the same function. The only thing Damien needs is soap. That's another habit he picked up in prison, apart from cleaning up efficiently. Mud and blood are streaming down the drain, the signs of tonight carried away by the water. However, some are easier to make go away than others.

Damien's hands are disgusting, yet he keeps washing them even after they are thoroughly clean, until the shoulder he fell on hurts. They still feel filthy beyond belief, smeared with something right beneath the skin. If he could get to it, he'd scratch it away. Maddeningly, it's just out of reach.

The only thing stopping the ex-cop from scrubbing until his skin starts peeling is that he said he'd take 5 minutes.

---

Damien keeps his promise.

The ruined suit he left folded on the floor inside the bathroom - given its state, he should have discarded it completely, yet the memory of how much it costs won't permit him to do that. Regardless, now he's dressed in the clothes Finch left out for him outside the bathroom. An okay fit, if slightly big on the ex-convict.

With his hands sanitary as can be, Damien is carrying several things retrieved from the trauma kit in the bathroom, most notably tweezers. He's wearing his glasses.

"So," the man starts, "You want me to get the splinter out now or after you shower?"
 
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Damien talks to his cat. Not necessarily in a dehumanizing way, but a cute friendly way. Like she's a person, almost.
The man cleans up after Finch too, swiping his hands clean over the garbage bin.

The capo is reminded of how Damien steadied his unstable table with a book. It was a casual, unspoken kindness. The man protected him against a driver drunk on road rage, and yet Finch finds himself appreciating the little things almost just as much.

The warm glow in his chest is a medical condition he should have examined.

Saying Kaden's hurt because he has a splinter is a little dramatic. It's nothing in comparison to the array of purpling Damien will have this time tomorrow.
The man seems to bruise like fruit, but in reality it's a testament to how he's been juggled from one brutal event to the next.

A five minute shower and then he'll help Kaden.
That worrying puff of warmth sparks deep inside at the thought.

He finds some temporary reprieve clothe hunting.
Having Damien wear something he frequents feels overwhelmingly intimate, especially now.
Fortunately, he has an unopened pack of briefs and some loose workout gear he didn't like.
Too loose and warm, but they'll be ideal for sleeping in.

---

As it turns out, they are more or less the same size. Finch has more leg than Damien, meaning the sweatpants pool at the man's feet. Other than that he looks fine.
His hair looks extra feathery like this.
And he's wearing his glasses again. Kaden still finds them very distinguishing.

"Now," he decides. It's annoying now, he can't imagine how much more it'll be with soap.

Finch takes a seat in the dining room and doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
He's never had someone to pull out a splinter.
Once he broke through a window and needed his back plucked, but this isn't the same thing at all.

"I thought I could take care of it myself and I may have made it worse," he informs, clearing his throat with cough.
 
Kaden has decided the splinter is to be pulled out now, sitting at the dining room table where the two had had dinner some nights ago. Damien nods, pulling out a chair next to him and setting down the medical supplies on the wooden surface.

"Turn slightly and lift your head," it's a request, not a command, and once Kaden acquiesces Damien leans in close to examine the spot again, this time more clearly with the help of his glasses. The skin around the tiny piece of wood is reddened from irritation, and the splinter's end isn't poking out. He frowns slightly, "Yeah, you made it worse. It's embedded itself."

Damien takes out a piece of cotton, soaking it in a tiny bit of rubbing alcohol to clean the area. Would have been better to use soap. The ex-convict is not an expert in handling injuries. Finch is probably much better versed - he uses injections with such skill, after all. But this is such a minuscule wound it can barely even be called that, not to mention Damien has had to remove splinters before - his own, Mike's, Eli's. Somehow, compared to those instances, this feels completely different and all at once the same. Actually, it's unfair to say "somehow". Damien knows exactly how, it's just strange to address it. Strange to experience it. It makes the insignificant splinter gain an air of importance it doesn't deserve and wouldn't receive under any other circumstances.

With no way to easily grab onto the wood with the tweezers, the ex-cop instead takes out a needle and disinfects it with more rubbing alcohol. His free hand reaches up for Kaden. It pauses for a moment, hovering.

"Sorry," Damien apologizes preemptively, "I know you don't like this, but bear with it for a minute. Also, don't move."

His hand finds purchase, without the buffer of cotton - his thumb is on the corner of Kaden's jaw while the rest of his fingers reach back to the man's nape. It's not a harsh hold, but it is firm enough to keep the consigliere's head steady while Damien uses the flat side of the needle to push the splinter back up to the skin's surface one movement at a time. He has to balance being gentle with being quick enough not to bother Finch too much. The fact that it's in his neck makes it inconvenient.

What a shitty place to get a splinter. One has to wonder how it got there.

"It doesn't look like you got hit over the head with a chair," Damien hums, still focusing on the task at hand, "I'll assume this is shrapnel then."

With each push from the needle, the splinter comes closer to the surface. It hasn't been broken into multiple pieces, so that's good.

"What happened at dinner exactly? And what of Ash?"

The dark dot has almost pierced skin.

"I got the gist of it, but I'd appreciate it if you ran me through exactly how things went down."

With another push from the needle, the end of the splinter pokes out. Damien reaches over for the tweezers, uses them to grab onto the wood, and finally removes it. That felt like way too long for such a tiny thing, "Now I guess you gotta wash the spot."
 
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