the butcher's bill must always be paid.

[nightmarist]

WHO: Ronan Lynch & YOU
WHERE: The Black Box Fight Club
WHEN: Before Ronan's inevitable capture
WHAT: Business with a certain dealer.
WARNINGS: Who knows?

The Black Box isn't an official name. It's simply the name visitors eventually bestowed upon the worn-down brick garage that belonged to an honest mechanic before it was repurposed and doused in pitch-black paint. Most of the time, the place is abandoned. Fight nights are random, announced just hours in advance and only by word of mouth. Fighters and spectators have to know someone or know someone who knows someone, and even then, the muscle might deny entry to anyone who stinks of narc. It's a private event, buddy.

The entry fee is $90. The winner will walk away with $100,000.

Inside, the fighting ring is just a square delineated by steel traffic barricades. There are no seats, no bleachers for the audience. They'll stand on their own two feet and watch a succession of bareknuckle boxers fight round after bloody round until the champion is declared. Bets can be placed at the bar, which offers two beverage options: cheap beer or cheap whiskey.

This illegal enterprise serves as the cover to an even less legal, even more dangerous business being run out the back.

Ronan Lynch likes to fight a round or two to get his blood pumping, but his associates know he's not there for the prize money. He drops out when his real clients begin to show up and meets them in the place he jokingly refers to as his office: the locker room. This room serves no other purpose these days, as the lockers for some reason refuse to open for anyone other than Ronan Lynch. Each one holds a different treasure, or weapon, or enchanted item. He'll introduce prospective buyers to every single one, if they haven't arrived with something already in mind.

This may seem like a risky strategy, but anyone who might have once considered fucking over Ronan Niall Lynch has since learned better. One time, a would-be thief emerged screaming from the locker room with his hands half-devoured by 24-carat gold scarabs, which only returned to their jewelry form once they'd finished eating the rest of him. Another thief somehow ended up blind and too terrified to describe how he'd come to be that way.

Ronan Lynch doesn't have many friends. But as long as he doesn't deem them a threat to himself, personally, he'll sell anything to anyone. No questions asked on either side of the table.

Comments

[dauntless_son]

Fourteen minutes.

Declan isn't prone to nervous habits, but now he feels restless and bothered. Something isn't right, he knows it. He stares at the last text message Ronan sent. Nothing yet.

He looks toward the fire door and flips through his contacts to the hired muscle they have to help with problems. Usually Declan Lynch can handle it, whatever it is, but other times a show of overwhelming force is necessary. Especially when there's a pair of meta brothers the government would surely like to get their hands on. Ronan's ability to manifest anything; Declan's ability to nullify other metas. It's one of Declan's recurring nightmares. He doesn't care what happens to him, but he can't let anything happen to Ronan.

Fifteen minutes.

He looks at his phone but there's no text from Ronan. Declan rolls out of the BMW and closes the door quietly. The gun from beneath the seat ends up hidden in a holster under his jacket.

Something's wrong.

He heads for the fire door, heart pounding as he prepares to render any meta in the building helpless. Even for people that have trained to fight without their power, the shock is usually enough for him to get the upper hand. Declan slips into the locker room, outwardly unconcerned. If he walks in a deal, he'll play the part he's meant to.

But there is no deal happening.

There is no Ronan.

For a few precious seconds, Declan just stands there, listening hard as if Ronan might just be in another part of the room. But there's nothing but the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ears. Maybe Ronan left and didn't text. It wouldn't even be the first time. Maybe he's circled round, back out at the BMW--

Then he sees it. Ronan's phone discarded on the floor. Slow and deliberate, Declan goes to it, crouches down to pick it up. There's nothing there but the open message window.

Nothing yet.

For most of his life, Declan Lynch has done everything in his power to keep his brother safe from everyone, even himself. And in the space of fifteen fucking minutes, he's lost him. He takes a deep breath and pushes down the rising panic. Panicking won't help him find Ronan. He slips the phone into his pocket and texts their backup. He can't alert anyone to this. They can't know the Greywaren is a person.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"Goddamnit, Ronan," he whispers into the empty space. "You better stay alive."

Wherever he is, Declan will come for him.

But first, he needs resources.