capencowl2020 | the butcher's bill must always be paid.

Entry tags:

!ic,
!log

the butcher's bill must always be paid.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If Ronan were the type to pack up and run at the first sign of trouble, he would be Declan, not Ronan.

Which isn't to say he's at ease. All sorts of criminals have walked through that door, many of them rebel terrorists, and none have shaken Ronan quite as badly as the man in the helmet. But he would have no business at all if he let fear drive his decisions. He would be cowering with all the other metahumans, as good as - if not literally - a prisoner.

Either very brave or very stupid, he's alone here today. His priority is finishing the job as smoothly as possible. When dealing with a psychic type, that means doing it by himself. Fewer minds, fewer paranoid thoughts and slips of information. Sure, maybe that means he's about to be robbed. But if it gets the man in the helmet out of his damn club sooner, he'll take the loss.

He's not holding a gun, this time, when he appears in the doorway of the locker room to greet his dark and mysterious visitor. "You're punctual," he remarks, like he hasn't been sitting here in a cold sweat all day, waiting for the sound of those boots approaching.

"One of my remaining virtues," Kylo replies smoothly. Through the processing of the helmet, it's difficult to say if the rejoinder was intended to be humourous— and the expressionless face of his mask provides nothing in the way of evidence either way.
But if what Ronan wants is for his masked visitor to keep his distance, he gets his wish. Kylo intrudes no further, apparently content to observe him from the half-shadow for now.

He's here for the merchandise, yes. But also the play.

Ronan is only 45% sure that there’s a living creature under that thing, but he’s pretty sure it just tried to joke with him. It is not charming. It’s unsettling.

“Where’d you lose the rest?” he counters anyway.

If the customer isn’t coming to him, it looks like he’s going to the customer. Ronan leaves the safety of the doorway to approach Kylo with a casual stride, though anything with a nose can probably smell the fear on him.

There probably aren't many people who could answer that question. Kylo could, if he were willing. He remembers with absolute clarity the concrete cage where he left such things behind.

But he says nothing, simply tracking Ronan's motion with his expressionless stare until he comes to a stop a handover's distance away, radiating a peculiar blend of fear and the foolhardy determination, almost a compulsion, to confront it. The pause is long enough to suggest Ronan won't be getting his answer.

"The merchandise," Kylo says. The change of subject is abrupt, though the curious tilt of his head suggests an interest in what he sees in front of him rather than anything yet to be revealed. "You have it for me."

Ronan feels the weight of that interest bearing down on him, as if it's something tangible enough to suffocate him, but it's not the first time the anxiety of discovery has taken that form. It's probably nothing. And there's still a transaction to get through.

"I did promise I wouldn't waste your time."

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and retrieves a folded envelope. The glow of its contents illuminates the paper, already proof enough, but he withdraws a single pill and offers it up for inspection. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger, the capsule shines bright enough to hurt if stared at directly. Ronan keeps his eyes on the mask, instead.

"No heat," he assures Kylo. "Just light. Easy to move, easy to hide. If it's too bright, maybe dip it in chocolate or something. I have ten, like you asked."

Unseen behind the mask, Kylo smiles.
Slow. Satisfied. He holds out his hand, the oppressive weight of his attention shifting from the dealer to the item.

Even from what he's seen, he's confident these capsules will provide something. How much and for how long, it's hard to say. Maybe impossible, until he has the opportunity to provide Apollo with one to test the results.

"And a single dose is sufficient?"

These are apparently supposed to be for vampire hunting, after all.

Ronan tucks the capsule back into the envelope and hands it over. This requires stepping closer to Kylo, which is something he obviously doesn't relish, as he retreats swiftly after the exchange. To his credit, he does it like he's in a hurry and not because he's afraid Kylo will suddenly snatch him along with the product.

"It's like they're swallowing the sun. Anyone with a life-threatening sun allergy probably won't feel great. That's as much as I know about it."

Ronan's tumbling collection of carefully concealed fears graze past Kylo's senses as he hurriedly deposits the envelope in Kylo's outstretched hand— but he lets them go, for now, occupied with his examination of the contents. Ten blindingly bright capsules. Ten units of life. Ten gifts of strength, ten acts of revenge. Apollo is owed far more.

They both are.

Swiftly, he shifts the packet, disappearing it into his robes to exchange it for an envelope of his own. Plain and unmarked, it appears utterly unremarkable, though the shape of it suggests Kylo hadn't been toying with Ronan when he suggested a communications disruptor as payment. The device inside is a little smaller than a standard deck of cards and perhaps a little heavier, currently offline. Kylo holds it out.

"I could provide you with more," he offers. "In exchange for future services. If your supplier is willing."

Ronan's eyebrows tick up in surprise at the appearance of the packaged device. He hadn't honestly believed he'd be paid, now or ever. For someone capable of hypnotizing an entire room of people, it would be extraordinarily easy to simply convince him to hand over the pills for nothing.

Still wary, he steps forward again to accept the envelope.

"Willing, maybe, but probably not able. Sorry, but I don't think anyone can scrape up more of those drugs. I hear stakes and silver are pretty effective and a lot easier to come by."

"Perhaps if I spoke with them directly," Kylo suggests— a certain level of amusement detectable through the digital distortion. Ronan had almost been hoping his visitor would break the agreement, hadn't he? Anything, to close the chapter of his involvement. "Your supplier. You'd be surprised. How often people underestimate their own capabilities."

He makes no move to snatch at Ronan this time, either, allowing him his payment without obstruction.

"Name your finder's fee, and you'll have it."

Ronan spreads his arms for a wide, helpless shrug. "Sorry, man," he says as he makes his retreat. Slower this time, but also further, back in the direction of the locker room. He doesn't want to give the impression this is a negotiation he intends to continue. "That's not how I do things."

Which, Kylo attempts to remind himself, is what he'd wanted proven. Ronan's distaste for giving up the names of customers and suppliers is supposed to feel like a protection rather than a disappointment, and he already has what he came for. The capsules. He has more than enough. There's no reason for him to waste any more time on Ronan Lynch.

So why is everything screaming at him not to let him retreat back into his sanctuary?

"No," Kylo agrees. "Wise of you. And I know where to find you, should I require anything else."

He'll let him go. He'll let Ronan take his jumbled nerves back into the locker room, then turn and leave. He has no reason to do anything else.

Ronan doesn't turn to look back. He acknowledges those words with a lazy bye-bye wave before disappearing into the locker room.

As soon as he's inside, he turns and presses his back to the wall beside the doorway. He'd walked the whole way, but his heart's racing like he just ran a marathon. Though there was no sound of heavy footsteps to indicate it, his body seems sure he's being chased, that the man will sweep into the room any second now.

He tosses the envelope aside and fumbles for his cell phone, keeping his eyes on the doorway. Glancing down just long enough to find Douchebag in his contact list, he holds his breath and listens.

Is he gone? Everything seems quiet, beyond the blood thudding in Ronan's ears.

His thumb slides to begin composing a text to his brother: all cl

And that, unfortunately for Ronan Lynch, is where his freedom ends.

The sensation is as unpleasant as it appeared from the outside, a week previously— a strange, sliding weight seizes hold of Ronan's body. All of it, uniformly, as if he's been encased or buried alive, but there's no sensation of touch. Only pressure. Unnatural density, pressing in on every side.

Ronan likely doesn't need to hear the heavy but unhurried footfalls of Kylo's approaching strides. He doesn't need to see the shapes of shifting shadows, cast by one of the sunlight capsules Kylo had pulled out into his palm for inspection only to discover something very interesting indeed: these tablets, every one of them, hum with precisely the same energy sparking through Ronan's nerves. Right now.

Kylo hasn't gone. He's watching Ronan's frozen terror from just beyond the doorway.

No.

Ronan's lips have parted to allow the sucked intake of a breath, but the scream he wants to let loose remains caught in his throat.

No.

He turns all of his focus to the cell phone, to will his thumb to send out a warning to Declan, but his fingers don't so much as twitch.

No.

He tries to shed his body altogether, to flicker out of this reality, to slip away like a forgotten thought. But he's rooted to the spot. Trapped in this corpse.

Kylo considers Ronan silently for a few more heartbeats, then curls his fingers. The cell phone glides out from Ronan's grip and flies smoothly to his palm, where he scrolls up to read the last few exchanges before discarding the device with an absent flick. It scuttles, shuddering across the concrete, and comes to a stop. Kylo's head swings to fix its blank masked stare on Ronan's face. He reaches towards him, towards his mind. He's an ice floe over the surface of his thoughts.

"Who supplied you with the capsules?" Kylo asks, his voice deceptively light.

Ronan's mind unfolds like a book falling open to the precise correct page. Like he was always meant to be read, if only someone thought to skim. If he passed for human before, he doesn't come close to it now. Humans have a will of their own. They have a natural resistance to influence. But Ronan is a wish that other people make.

He hears himself answer, "No one."

How beautifully, blissfully simple it is, to press in— Ronan gives way like he was always waiting for Kylo to ask. He's like... a gift, so eager to be claimed it unwraps itself.

"No one," Kylo echoes. He can already see the outline of the truth beginning to take shape. "It's the same for all of them. Isn't it. All your... miraculous finds. These expensive toys and trinkets. All of them."

He paces forwards.

"Where do you find them, Ronan?"

"They come from me."

He has spent his entire life terrified that this truth might be discovered. Now, confessing it to a malevolent stranger, Ronan doesn't even experience the fear that seized him a minute ago. He can't fathom freedom enough to fight for it. His entire purpose has been recalibrated to the desire of the one holding his mind.

He breathes slowly now.

"From my dreams."

There's no need to be afraid, as long as he submits. Kylo's will hums with satisfaction, feeding thick, heavy encouragement into Ronan's mind. Like this. Just like this.

"You could find more for me," Kylo prompts, almost softly now. "Couldn't you. If I wanted them."

It can't be called submission. That would imply Ronan ever had a choice to surrender. He doesn't submit to Kylo's probing any more than marble submits to the sculptor. Dreams are meant to be dreamed, ideas are meant to be shaped, and the Greywaren is meant to actualize.

Answers. Wishes. Terrors.

Light.

"Yes."

"Who's waiting to hear from you?" Kylo asks. An idea is drawing together in his mind as he skims through Ronan's thoughts, coalescing into a wish. A desire.

Why content himself with the merchandise, when he can have the manufacturer?

"Your safeguards. Protections. List them for me."

"My brother," Ronan answers without a moment's hesitation, "is waiting in the BMW parked in the back alley. I'm texting him every fifteen minutes. If he doesn't hear from me, he'll put out a call to our muscle. They're in the bar across the street. They'll come in from the front. Declan will come in through the fire door."

The one on the other end of the locker room, propped open just an inch so it can be accessed from the outside. That's how it is when Ronan acts alone. He's never more than one text away from his brother. It's why he's still alive.

"He knows what you can do and he can stop you. He's also got a gun." A dispassionate warning. It doesn't seem to matter to Ronan, now, whether Declan rescues him or not. "It's been more than ten minutes since my last text."

Kylo considers, taking a moment to reach out for confirmation.
It's an effective list of protections, yes, particularly if he wants to avoid drawing undue attention to himself and his activities. But it's hardly impossible to take apart.

"Come here," he says, reaching for Ronan's discarded phone and weighing it thoughtfully in his hand as he waits to be obeyed. "I can feel him. Waiting for you, in the car. Gripping the wheel to steady himself. Counting seconds. Let's not give him any reason for alarm, shall we?"

It probably isn't difficult to imagine a number of ways Kylo could kill Declan from here, if he really can sense his presence. The gun, for example. Kylo could have it in Declan's hand, pressed to Declan's temple just as easily as he has Ronan's fingers curling around his phone.

"Send him the check-in signal."

As mindless as a marionette, Ronan steps forward to take the phone. He stares at the screen for a long moment, like he's puzzled by it, then slowly backspaces away the letters of the message he'd been in the middle of composing when he was captured.

all cl
all c
all
al
a

He replaces it with:

nothing yet

And he holds up the phone for Kylo's approval before he hits SEND.

the butcher's bill must always be paid.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)