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Sinner's Garb

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

Commissioned by Mirath

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It did not happen where it was supposed to.

Maybe an abandoned warehouse. The, now underground, drug processing facility. Such a fancy way to put it, something that Donnie had come up with, putting words in an order that made sense. He would have called it something too wordy, something that those in their seedy employ would have tilted their heads at and tried to wrap their heads around, and that simply would not have done. But he didn't expect to lie out there with mud soaking his clothes, one shoe kicked off, dying in the woods with no one there to stand over him. There was no one there with him, opponents felled, lost to the waking world. In a similar way, it was quite true that his death without ceremony was nothing that would concern the rest of the waking and living world any more.

It was not to be that way. And, yet, it was.

John had never expected it to be in a ditch, the rain hammering down as if it too was eager to leech away his blood into the very essence of the earth itself. John fought to keep his eyes open, one eye half-closed with mud, although he had neither the strength nor the energy in his broken and beaten down body to come back to reality. Who wanted reality anyway when that was where all the pain was? Better to slip away, to sink away, to come down and down and down to the point where the darkness called him, twisted fingers and tendrils snaking through his body. And, so cold, so very, very cold. Would it be warm down where he was going?

Even the king, after his time had passed, had to fall, eventually.

John closed his eyes, breathing shallowly and unevenly, each and every breath snatched with the knowledge that, well...it could well be his last. And, for that fact alone, each and every one came as a gift as his life essence drained into the ground, the gash in his throat open to allow his blood to seep away. There was no coming back from a wound like that and it was only his tenacious stubbornness that, surely, had kept him holding on to the faintest sliver of life for so long, the ground and the weight of his body putting just enough pressure on the gash to slow the pulse and throb of blood. Yet there was no medical intervention coming and John would not have gone if he'd been attended by any kind of paramedic. What they found in his system would link him to at least a wrongdoing in some manner of drug use and there were hardly any questions that he could answer to either hospital personnel or police officers alike. And he wasn't going to spend the rest of his days locked up in jail for no good fucking reason.

So, let it come. He'd let it come. Drop by drop, blood trickling out, weaker and weaker with every passing second. He'd let it come. There was nothing else, after all, that he could do when the airs of speculation dragged him down and down and down.

But how had all come to pass?

*

John snarled, a ripping, blood-curdling cry that would have been more appropriate coming from the mouth of a wolf. But not a pack wolf, an alpha, oh no - one that had gone off on its own, proving the might of steel jaws, blood and sinew, just how much pure, raw ferocity a heart could pump through the veins of a body simply designed to kill. Someone once had compared him to a lion, that house from that show that everyone was talking about for years, the spin-offs and the like, but he hadn't liked that. Who'd want to be a stupid cat when they could have the power of a true predator behind them, one that could live through the coldest winters, lean through the hardest of times, and emerge just as daring on the other side with darkness in their eyes?

Maybe that was him. Maybe that wasn't him. It didn't matter. Even then, he knew that nothing much was going to matter in the end. And that was just why he'd gone to see Donnie that day, for nothing more than a pleasantry. Of course, a pleasantry for him, when it did not involve their 'work', that was, meant a rough session of fucking and he growled again as he pinned his brother down to his bed, driving into his anal passage over and over again as if he'd never again get to feel the pleasure.

And, oh, what pleasure it was. His eyes rolled back into his skull, nails raking jagged lines down his brother's back, Donnie gasping and clawing at the bed as if he was trying to get away, sheets dragged up against his chest. He wasn't trying to go anywhere though, just bearing through his climax as he shot his load over the bed, hips yanked up under John's fingers, digging and biting into his bones. John held him tightly, too tightly, fixing his hips in place for the ram of his shaft. He needed it badly, needed Donnie, even if he was not prepared to admit that and it truly was something where the words would never, not even once, have to pass the barrier of his lips.

Like a kiss, a secret could be sealed away, the sense of unease pushing up in his stomach, threatening to throw him off. Slowly, slowly... Yet there was no slow in his world and ecstasy dug its nails into the back of his mind, demanding attention, even as he drew scratches on his brother's hips and lower back, searching for a hold to keep all in place, where it should be, despite the fact that he was the only one heaving and jerking erratically.

A snarled expletive was as eloquent as it got at the point of orgasm, hair hanging around his shoulders and down his back as he drove in one final time, a deep, guttural moan rolling forth as he spent himself. Each pulse of cum should have come as sweet relief in the presence of it leaving his body, balls tight and churning, aching for more, but his heart tugged, plunging into sullenness even as physical pleasure warmed him from head to toe.

Not the most fulfilling orgasm but not the worst either. Like the rest of his life, it would simply have to do. And there was still work to be done.

Wouldn't Donnie laugh at that if he knew? The notion of him, John, voluntarily doing even a single bit of work entirely of his own accord? And, even so, it was something that no one would know about until the deed was all well and done, the final chapter concluded and the seed, well...planted as it had to be. He would not be praised and he would not spread his arms out, as he had done in the past, demanding his due adoration and accolades but merely fade off into the depths where time had no meaning and he left little that was tangible in his wake.

Donnie, however... Donnie would be fine. That was what mattered.

They cleaned up in silence, John leaving Donnie there on the bed with his skin slick with sweat, seed glistening on his buttocks and thighs as if he had been used - and, truly, that was all he had been. He had little say in what John did when they came together but, as a little thing between them, it was hardly something he was going to complain about when he got such a sweet deal out of it at the end of the day. With the hot water of the shower rushing through his hair, slickening it down to his scalp, John inhaled deeply, steam flooding his nostrils. In a way, the hot water was as exciting as it was calming and it was only the knowledge of what the day still held for him that kept his cock from throbbing to full hardness again, striving to plump up for the carnal needs of a body that, well, would not have that need for very much longer.

Think. Breathe. One step at a time. He knew the motions and he found a spare pair of clothes, shedding his crisp attire for jeans and a pair of new sneakers that looked like what Donnie would wear: not really all that important but branded and white enough that one could tell that they had never before been out of their box. The shirt he left open a couple of buttons, sleeves rolled back to his elbows, but there was not much he could do about his hair without some more obvious intervention and it was too late for that as he strode through the bedroom, intent in his snappy, long-legged stride.

"Where are you going?"

John paused but only for a moment. It wasn't like Donnie to ask something like that. They knew what was what, their little agreement, the strange sort of engagement and relationship they had between them. Brothers, yes, but brothers that, in part, did not act like brothers at all. Brothers didn't usually do the things they did, although that was something that could be applied to rather a lot of their relationship and not just the sexual side.

"Out."

A short answer. The one that he was expected to give and the roll of the eyes was just so too. He knew what to do and Donnie sat up, leaning back on his hands with a frown on his face. John met his eyes levelly. His brother, truly, was a shade too astute for his own good. That was why he'd had such a big impact on him, even on years back. Maybe that was why he'd gotten wrapped up in the drug world too, just thinking that he could make a quick buck and then the millions had turned into...

He pushed away the thought. Donnie stared, unblinking.

"I expected so."

Clipped and short: unlike him. John tried to shrug it off but the twinge that was not entirely muscular did not pass without notice as he shifted his weight back onto his heels, spreading his arms and raising both eyebrows.

"My dear brother... I didn't realise that you were keeping tabs on me."

"Hardly."

Oh, he knew, but there was only one thing that could be done, as much as it would darken the rest of his days. John smiled and pressed two fingers to his face, one lying up parallel to his nose and the other curled down and pressed to his chin, that look of complete sympathetic derision flush across his face.

"Did you want to be involved, Donnie? My, oh, my - and here was me thinking that you hadn't gotten so attached to me, what with that little 'vacay' you took not so long ago. Left all the business here to me and, well, it all ran smoothly enough without you now, didn't it? Do you want to dig your fingers into the pie again to feel nice and big and important?"

"Oh, fuck you..."

He knew it then that he'd cut deep and hard into a heart that didn't deserve it but that was just something that John was going to have to live with, drawing himself up tall and barking a short, sharp laugh that was devoid of humour for reasons that Donnie could not even imagine. He was clueless on that count, for once, and there was little that he could do to prevent the path that John had already chosen, even if it was a route in life (hah, now that was a jest...) that he would not have ordinarily have chosen.

As Donnie dragged on his clothes, hardly bothering to clean himself up bar the essentials, John took a deep breath when his eyes were not on him. It was only a moment but it was enough to steady his resolve. Just what was he thinking?

Oh, Donnie...

_ _

"Actually, there is something you can do for me," John said slowly, turning with a carefully calculated smirk on his face as if an idea had just come to him. "There's a fresh batch of the new blend - Religion, you named the thing - at my place that needs to get down to base operations for testing. It needs bringing over to base. Can you do that, oh Small Donnie?"

If he'd been more with himself and his senses, Donnie would have scowled and rolled his eyes, realising right then and there that something was up as the words came out shallowly phrased as a question rather than the usual demand or something that was simply rhetorical. Of course, he would do it: that was the nature of their relationship. It was just how things had always been between them and, just as John had been counting on, he was moving to do as he was bid before his mind had even caught up with what had been said and just what his body was doing.

"Sure, whatever..."

Donnie, however, was not so far gone that he did not shoot a dark look back at John as he left the bedroom, whose expression did not change one bit, giving off the very appearance and simile of a man who had it all. And, for that time alone, he did. He had the money, everything that he could ever have wanted to relieve his sex drive... A relationship, of course, was not really on the cards in the traditional sense of the term, but he had what he needed. Above all else, it was the money that buttered his palm, passed currency from hand to hand and back again, when all was said and done at the end of the day. And he'd done what he needed too, waiting with his lips pressed just a little bit too tightly together for the re-entry that was sure to come.

One...

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Two...

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Three...

"John..."

There we go.

Donnie frowned, holding up a jacket that was marked with some unimaginable substance. Drugs of some kind, a little too obvious. John cocked an eyebrow, although sometimes it seemed that it was impossible for them to leap any further up to his hairline with how often he felt he had to do it around Donnie. Maybe that was one of the things that he was going to miss. Maybe not. Either way, it was clear that Donnie wasn't about to hike his way jauntily down the street with any kind of spring in his step with that kind of white powder smeared down his front. It wasn't even the good stuff.

"Yeah?" John shrugged. "Shit, you're making a deal over something like that, dear one? Take mine. It's warm out. I don't need it."

The implication that Donnie needed the jacket more than him rang clear in the air between them and a more stubborn soul may have left the jacket behind simply for that reason alone. Who, after all, would have wanted to be thought weak, a thought that was far more prevalent within the scope of the men of the world above the women? Everyone had to put on an act and Donnie still knew what was best for him, rolling his eyes when he was only half out of John's line of sight and making good his exit with his brother's jacket slung over his arm.

There may have been a muttered curse in there somewhere. John chose not to hear it.

Donnie could have, of course, taken another jacket of his own from the wardrobe but maybe he just wanted to get out of his brother's presence as quickly as possible; John had been told on more than one occasion that he had that effect on people. But Donnie would be nondescript enough making his way over to John's place and in enough time to avoid the fireworks and the fact that he was wearing a jacket that had been, long ago, trademarked as something of John's and John's alone amongst the three brothers would help him along his way. It wasn't, after all, John that they were after.

Methodically, John locked up, ensuring that the technical ventures were sealed away behind the coded entry system. Just for good measure, he changed the code too to one of Donnie's safe versions, the emergency steps that he'd set up in case something untoward came to pass. Of course, it would take him no time at all to hack back into his own system but John wondered if his name would again be cursed many times over before he did actually regain access or if he would be thankful at all that John had taken the step to protect his assets. Most likely, he would be cursed. And he was okay with that too. Anything less, truly, would have disappointed him.

Checking the doors, the security system. In a strange way, the slow, repetitive movements soothed him, breath catching just a little in his throat. He could not push things too far, of course, and he had to stay alert for something to change. They could be there at any moment and he most certainly would not be caught unawares. No, if he was going to walk into this, it was going to be with a smirk on his face and, undoubtedly, his middle finger pointing right at them too. No sense in going out, after all, without a bang.

He took a breath, checked his reflection. If he slouched just a bit, he could be mistaken for Donnie. His long-leggedness would have to be curtailed, however, drawn back just enough to match Donnie's casual gait. He tried it a few times up and down the living room, laughing at himself but staying out of sight of the windows at all times. Didn't he look a right fool? Donnie would have laughed. Or maybe he wouldn't have laughed because he would have been the one in the position of being mocked and that brought a whole new element to the situation by far.

No matter. It was done and, with the late afternoon sunshine dipping below the suburban street line, John set his shoulders back. It was time. The security system picked them up but he ignored it, turning off the warning and wiping it in but a moment so that Donnie would not have to see. He'd find out later, of course, just what had happened, but there was no sense in leaving it all on the screen to be replayed over and over again. It was one last little thing that he could do for him in the background of doing the little things and the big things too, even though he tried all he could so that it did not rise to his brother's notice.

He, after all, had a reputation to maintain. And he would die facing that reputation head-on, horns locked with the enemy.

John settled himself before the front door, keys in hand. The security system was set, nothing more to do. His heart pounded, mouth dry. He was glad, in a way, that neither of his brothers were there to bear witness to the act itself. It was better that way, cleaner and sharper, as deeply as it cut to face it just as he was, no more than he was. And, without any further delay, it was time.

At least he smelled good.

Too cliché. He locked up the house and set the codes, hidden from the undiscerning eye. It was the key that would be taken off him and, well, that was pretty much useless anyway with Donnie's home. No one would get in but it was merely a precaution that he had set everything to rights on the interior too.

Down the garden path, the hedges on the neighbour's side needing trimming. They had, most likely, been deliberately left like that, those on the inside ensuring that the neighbour didn't manage to get his yard work done and the hedges trimmed. Donnie had been considering hacking into his system just for those hedges. It was a simple little trick and one that Donnie should have seen coming ahead of time but, as seemed to be the case with the most untimely and crudest of plans, it was John who, in the end, stumbled into them with his head spinning with drugs and jaw unthinkingly, uncharacteristically, slack, a glimmer of drool at the corner of his lips.

The man who had revealed the plan to him, inadvertently, the fucking fool, had not breathed the Lord's sweet air for much longer after those moments, as frail and tentative in a drunken stupor as they'd been. It was the way of it, surely, especially considering who it was that was plotting the demise of the one that, somehow, he had determined would cause John the most pain, send him off the rails so that he too could be picked off and used up, as easily and as simply as anyone may have liked. They knew and, well, since they knew...there would never again be anywhere safe for the two of them, the fault line and weakness of their tryst exposed.

It wasn't the fault of the crony who had divulged the news but, hey, who better to take out his frustration on? Fingers pressed around his throat, John heaved him up, eyes cold and hard as the other man's popped out of his skull, hair lank and unkempt around his face. He'd been dragged about a bit first, scorned and mocked, solely because John could. He knew not what he'd imparted, what he'd taken to be mere banter in a bar coming to light as something far more sordid to John's more experienced eye. He knew what was going on even if the messenger didn't. The matter of fact was, however, that the messenger sometimes got the brunt of the beating regardless of their part in the deliverance of it.

Beneath the gloom of an overpass was hardly a place to die in the stink and the dirt but that was just the way of it. Graffiti had lined the walls as John looked down on him, a broken light that must have been some kind of security feature, designed to deter those from the seedy underbelly of a city that should have been pulsing with life from loitering and lingering just where they were not wanted.

And just where were those who were not wanted supposed to go? Where was his place when one had deigned to reveal the coy and the plan, a scapegoat at best while the one in charge was a wolf in sheep's clothing? Sighing, he looked down at precisely the right moment, the hedgerow quivering as if stirred up by some bird that was brave enough to carve out a tiny corner of life in the suburbs of the city. There weren't many animals left in the city, managed with spikes to keep them away even as litter layered the streets. Maybe that was the downside of inebriating and sullying half the population with a constant stream of substances, ripe for abuse.

Walking, he kept his eyes down, thoughts carrying him away. It was fair. He didn't want to see the wolf coming for him. Nobody would.

But they were coming.

And they slammed into him with the force of a ton of bricks but the needle that jabbed into his neck was something that he did not expect. The prick shot through him and he grunted, although it was over too swiftly to fight back, his body crumpling to the sidewalk that he'd paced a hundred times or a thousand times over since Donnie had moved out there, although he'd undoubtedly now have to move again. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, bile rising up in the back of his throat and a shape looming over him that could only vaguely be discerned as a behemoth of a man, although the smirk that he was sure was there could not be seen at that moment. It didn't need to be seen.

Wasn't it funny how so little was actually needed in the world? It was a strange thought indeed to have but one that made John smile even as he slipped away, darkness wrapping him up in her arms like an old lover welcoming him back.

Yet he knew that was not the end.

*

He could not tell how much later it was when he woke, only that he came to in a gasp and a spit-up of drool and lord knew what else in the back of a vehicle. He should not have been so quick to tell where he was - kidnapping was hardly something that he, personally, made any sort of habit of - but the exhaust and misfire was not something that he could mistake for anything else, not even in the darkness. Heat clawed at his skin and he groaned, turning over onto his back, knees drawn up but bound. Testing the limits of his movement, he strained with his ankles, finding those tied too. Hands then? Of course, bound before his chest, clasped as if in prayer. That was not fitting. If he had ever thought to pray to a god, it would have been a god of the underworld that went with his line of so-called 'work'.

A fold of fabric over his eyes. Well, that was rather pointless, wasn't it? It wasn't as if he could see anything in the trunk of the car but they'd made sure to make him as helpless as he possibly could be. John seethed silently, even though he had, of course, been the one to walk into their trap. It could have been Donnie or Charles even that walked into it, depending on who their target would have been. In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't have mattered, considering the family bonds at play, ties that could be broken or torn to shreds when a weakness, such as theirs, was thus exposed.

He swallowed and sank down into himself, breathing shortly and shallowly. The trunk reeked. Was that him? He really hoped it wasn't him. Rattling over bumps and potholes in the road, the car jostled him and he grunted, tossed from one side to the other, wrists crushed beneath the weight of his body. Pain didn't mean anything much to him though. It was just one more thing that, for the time being, reminded him that he was still alive.

But a passive player in the landscape of his life, he could do nothing as he lay in the car boot, jerking and rattling as if he was nothing more than luggage. Maybe that was the grand prize that they'd reduced him to, in the end, something that became a mere object to be used as he had used so very many in his life before. It was fitting too, in a way, but not in any kind of manner that he would have liked it to be considered as fitting. Poetic justice didn't ring through in his books and, well, he needed something more than what they wanted from him in his final hours.

That would come through. He was sure of it.

How much time had passed? It was impossible to say as he rolled against the back and struggled to breathe, the blindfold shifting and yet darkness enveloping him. Perhaps the deed had already been done, the hair clinging damply to the back of his neck the mere remnant of what he would forever feel for the rest of his 'afterlife', so to speak. For he would no longer be living, twisting and turning in a torturous repetition of what had happening, reliving and unloving it over and over again.

It was funny how the mind could play cruel tricks on a man when clad in darkness. He sweated and shook but there was no one there to see him and, yet again, for that, he was glad. It would not have been becoming to be observed in such a fashion, a twisted manner that did not depict him at his norm, let alone his best. It was the right thing to do, however, regardless of how much that one thought along turned his stomach, slicing up through his gut as if he had, quite literally, been stabbed.

Maybe that was how they would do it. Only time, however, would tell on that one.

The car trundled to a stop and he held his breath, although it was a futile endeavour. If they'd been the ones to fucking dump him in the trunk, they sure as hell knew that he was still there and expected him to be there. It would have been a mean feat indeed if he had managed to escape from a locked trunk, from the inside, while in transit. Although it would have been one to add to his portfolio of tricks, that chapter had long ago come to a close. And now he was in the final pages of a story come to its inevitable yet natural conclusion.

Was it there? He turned his head, catching his breath as the chain brushed his collarbones. Silver with onyx set into it, it had no real meaning to him and was a rather stupid thing to wear for such an occasion as when it could be used against him, muffled voices shuffling through the bodywork of the car as he tried not to breathe, tried to make himself, for once, appear small and weak, broken down. He had needed it, however, just as one last, little thing to keep him going, something that Donnie had said, offhandedly, would be his kind of thing. Back then, John hadn't really known why he'd bought it (Charles was the pickpocket and petty crime was hardly the deal for a man of John's stature) but the final hour seemed like the perfect time to ensure that the black stone was on his person. It would not identify him but it would, at least, personify him. And maybe that was all that a man needed.

The trunk rattled, someone striving to jimmy it open. Maybe it stuck. Maybe it would stay stuck. But he just had to stay there, biding his time, slowly but surely. All would come to pass and he could make his move once the right move revealed itself to him. It would be the last tool he had at his disposal, yet he was known for pulling one out of the hat at the last moment possible. Something akin to hope - perhaps a distant relative - rekindled in his gut and he clenched his jaw, the rag in his mouth foreign and dirty, caked with something that he didn't want to think about. Maybe he wasn't ready to go out just yet. But better him fighting the last fight, if that was what it was to be, than Donnie or Charles.

Definitely better.

The trunk slammed open and he stilled, wondering if the frantic pace of his heart was visible at his throat. There was nothing more vulnerable than a man's throat - those who said it was the cock were fucking liars. Life and blood and breath were what contained a man and each of those pumped through there, pulsing with the virility that other parts of the body were responsible for. Someone laughed and spat, a globule of spittle landing square on his face, although he didn't even flinch. Let them think, then and there, that he was reduced down to nothing, malleable in their hands. If he'd been able to smirk, he would have done so. Then they would see.

"Get the fucker on his feet."

Hauled up, he was not idle. Snarling through the gag, he raged and spat and chewed at the rag, fighting tooth and nail with the weight of his body, throwing it from side to side. And, truly, there was a lot of him to throw around and a lot of him to put off his attacker's balance, someone cursing and shoving him straight off into a pair of much rougher and more grizzled hands. Those hands were hardened by years of work and had no trouble lugging him up, even if the motion did come with a grunt of effort. John growled through the gag with the nastiness of a caged beast, twisting and writhing with every last bit of strength that he had in his body - it was not as if he was going to need it if he did not use it all up now - for the elusive freedom.

Just a touch of it. Maybe that would be enough. Enough to chew through the ropes, slip the gag, get some measure of it - and away! He was not lost yet even as footsteps echoed hollowly beneath him over a wooden floor, tossed down onto it with a stifled gasp that could not refill itself with just how the breath was knocked from his body. His assailant simmered a curse and John shot one back, even if it had to be done mentally. Well, it wasn't as if he was going to let them get away with it. Even if they did 'off' him, he was going to come back and haunt the lot of them, the rancid fucking bastards!

Anger gave him strength but that did not stop them as they heaved him up onto a chair, placed there as if on show for those who sought to eliminate him. Except, of course, it was not really him that was supposed to be sitting there, although they must not have been very good at telling the brothers apart if they hadn't yet realised that there was, at the very least, a difference in the shade of their hair. Against himself, he hoped that they wouldn't notice, that all would continue off without a hitch. Maybe then, at least, he would have bought Donnie some time. The notes he'd left for both of his brothers, however, in safe locations, would tease out a warning for them to disappear. Time was the only and last gift, in that worst case scenario, that he could give them.

And then the blindfold was ripped off along with the bite of the gag, leaving him blinking beneath a bare light bulb with two men looming over him. The skinnier of the two would have been the one who had grabbed him first of all for the cretin who must have done the bulk of the heavy lifting stood there with his arms crossed as much as he could over an impossibly broad chest, gut spilling out against a shirt and black jacket that looked fresh and, previously, unworn. John suppressed any reaction. New clothes were designed to be thrown away after a job was done: to hide the fluids that would, undoubtedly, seep into them.

"Jaunt sends his regards."

Shaking his head slowly, John worked out the kinks in his neck under the guise of a mocking, derisive motion. They wouldn't see him weak. Not when he didn't have anything to gain by it. And, now, it was a dangerous game at play indeed.

"Such a shame that bastard couldn't spare the energy to come here and do it himself, isn't it?" He shot back, eyes simmering with all the hatred that he could possibly put into a single expression. "Is he too busy sucking off some prick in jail then? Best place for him, isn't it?"

The man built like a brick wall did not react, merely blinking as if John was discussing the weather with him, but the second man, a smooth, blonde-haired gent who was dressed entirely too sharply and smartly for such an occasion, pressed his lips together more tightly, fingers closing around the wrist of his opposite arm. John's eyes locked on him instantly. He was the one to watch.

But he recovered himself quickly, smiling with a strange sense of serenity and smoothing his hair back, tied away from his face to show off his handsome cheekbones, looks that the ladies (or guys too) would have died for. A man in his position, of course, had to monologue and John could have laughed out loud at how his inexperience showed through as clear as day. Although it was as he suspected, he couldn't believe that they would have thought it all so easy to pull off, him a puppet to be put on show and made to dance. And there was just a jot of slack in the ropes around his ankles, further betraying a lack of aptitude, despite appearances.

There was a chance yet. A small one, but still a chance that could be snatched up, if he so dared as to take it for himself. And John always dared.

"Donnie, Donnie, Donnie..."

John could not help but shiver, however minutely. Just how many times over had he repeated Donnie's name to him in just that tone, that tone of power and control? Except he had meant it in a brotherly sort of way, their sort of way that could not be explained by mere words. This man just wanted to intimidate him, thinking, of course, that he was his brother.

Tilting his chin up defiantly, John met his eyes.

"Fuck you."

It didn't have to be either eloquent or elegant to make his point heard but all he got was a smile in return. A cruel, conniving, sickly sort of smile that made his stomach turn as he kept his expression carefully impassive.

"Ah... Such fight. He said that your brother was like this, too up his own for anyone's tastes, unwilling to listen to fair and just reason. He could have had it all and you too through him, you know, but he threw that all away and now you're going to be the one to pay the price for it. Although, maybe that's why..."

He paused to spare himself the decency of a little chuckle, turning his lips, pointedly, to the side. They were altogether too perfect for John's liking.

"That attitude of yours too... It's gotten you into some trouble. We found your programme, you know, even before the worst of it went down. We almost had you too and then Jaunt ended up on the run, thrown into the system and exploited, surely, as you planned all along. And all because you thought that you could take down our operation?"

The man smiled and narrowed his eyes, a little too far to be a natural, unthinking action.

"All for your brother... And just what is your relationship with your brother, hm? Should we go into that? How does _John_feel about you disappearing now, shall we say?"

John rolled his eyes. It didn't sound so real when it was put like that and he could imagine that it was happening to someone else, giving him some distance, derision rising up just like bile in the back of his throat. And that too said about their relationship? Well, that was already out in the open, clearly, from the very fact that the fucking plan was put into place.

"Why bother?" He challenged with a yawn, an eyebrow casually cocked as if he was about to drop a sharply witty remark once again. "You want to get rid of me or something, don't you? What, you going to get your fucking hands dirty, darling, and sully that pretty suit of yours? I bet the tags were hardly on that one before you lifted it from the store."

A weak insult but one that hit home as his target bristled visibly.

"This was tailored," he snapped in a low snarl, temple clearly throbbing, the pulse of blood through his veins as hot and fiery as the one that he so resembled. "Keith, take care of him. I don't have the time to waste on sewer rats."

John laughed, throwing his head back. Halfway to the door in the quickly heated anger and roughened-up passion that John would have, honestly, expected from Jaunt himself, the lost man of the hour, the man in charge who didn't have all the power paused.

"Seriously..." John could barely stop himself from laughing to speak, chest aching, although he could not be sure that it hadn't been stomped on during the course of his capture. "You're going to go and get yourself all snarled up over a comment like that? What's wrong with you fucking people? Don't any of you have a backbone?"

Maybe he just wanted to play some more. Maybe he thought that he had a better chance of getting out alive if the man hung around. Either way, John had to poke the bear just a little bit more, pushing his luck as he tested the waters. Could he really be...

The thought needed pursuit.

"Really, you're all the same," he said, following his best hunch and observing each and every little twitch in reaction, eyes souring. "You think you can put on a front in public and appear all smart and - tailored, was it? Oh, dear one... The game doesn't work like that and you sure as fuck better wake up before someone puts you out of your misery. That's just why Jaunt got caught, isn't it? He got cocky. He thought he was better than everyone else. Better than m-my brother. And he was wrong, wasn't he?"

He almost slipped up but pushed on regardless, ploughing on as the man before him practically hopped from one leg to the other, shifting his weight as if he wanted nothing more than to launch himself at John and wrap his hands around his throat. But that wasn't John's deal and the damage was already very much in the process of being done. Best to see it through to the explosive end, was it not?

"He was wrong because he was fucking weak - do you get that?" He spat. "And you're just the same as him, you'll all just be the same as him, thinking that you've got it in the bag. The only way to play the game is always to assume you've not got it and, well, my brother didn't fucking know that but I did. I may not be fucking any better than you but, together, we are!"

The words flew from his lips in a burst, startling even John, but the words of a dying man meant little in the grand scheme of things, his assailant opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. It would have been comical if not for the dire nature of the scene at play, John heaving and gasping for breath, cheeks hot with emotion that he had not even realised had risen up, the man who wished to see his brother, Donnie, dead breathing far too quickly to be perfectly calm and serene. But neither was he, clearly, a man with enough experience at his back to get the job done himself. And that, surely, would be his undoing.

"I'm done with you."

Quite physically, he brushed off his hands on his trousers, straightening to tidy the fall of his tie, tucked into the suit jacket. John shook his head and laughed like a madman, rocking back and forth on the chair, just about careful enough only to keep all four legs on the floor. His captor's face twisted but he could barely see it as he scrunched up his face, howling for the sheer hell of it - for what cause was there in holding it back anymore? He may have been crazy at some times but this guy, this guy, well, he was a fucking lunatic, thinking all that he did, the power trips played out and done while he was still standing at the starting line.

And it infuriated him.

"You're a lost cause, Donnie, and no one is going to know your name," he hissed, cutting through the mirth with genuine, dark intent. "I hope the afterlife is cruel to you. No one will ever remember you up here, your body stinking and rotting and nothing left of you for the world to know. There is no name for you here. Your brother will be next, mark my words."

"Small consolation that's going to be when I don't even know your fucking name either," John howled, eyes moistening with tears that most certainly were not from any form of pain or suffering, misguided joy throbbing hard and full in his chest. "You're nothing to me and you're never going to be fucking anything either!"

The blow struck him across the face and he fell from the chair still laughing, his assailant swearing and leaving, shaking his fist as if even that measly blow had hurt him. But he was gone and out of the room as John still shook with laughter, hair falling into his face as the meathead - was it Keith? What a name! - hefted him with a grunt of effort, his little, piggy eyes standing out in a face that looked really far too large for them, lost in folds of flesh that betrayed his age.

It was all a farce. They weren't real - not really a threat. And maybe things could have been different if it was not Donnie that was involved, John shoved back into the chair as a suitcase was opened, revealing a selection of knives. He could have snickered yet again at just how everything was planned and played out, every last little thing designed to intimidate him when he was far too far gone to even consider the act of intimidation in itself, the light glinting off the shine of the steel?

His doom stood, the knife flashing. Their eyes locked and John pulled back, his jaw set. It could not be so easy. And yet the man smirked, his lips pressed together so tightly that it took a discerning eye to catch it in the lick of saliva teasing between his lips, practically salivating for John's blood like a fucking wild beast before a fresh kill.

Yet that particular beast had a wolf to face up to.

In the moment that he stood over him, taunting the blade, John lashed out, making his move in the blink of an eye with the speed of a striking serpent. His bound legs came up directly into the man's groin and he grunted, lunging even as he fell. A male's anatomy was a crude blow to go for but there were no rules to play by on the edge of death, wavering back and forth as the final curtain threatened to fall, and John was up and teetering for balance in but a moment, fighting to control his body when his limbs were locked down and useless. But not for long as he got his arms around the creature's neck - if he was to survive, he couldn't serve to see him as a man, not at the moment when anger faded to shockingly sickening clarity - the ropes, strangely, helping him.

If he'd shouted, perhaps he would have lived. Perhaps Jaunt's brother, for that was the only person that his crony could have been, a jumped up impressionist of one who was intrinsically flawed and doomed to fail to begin with, would have heard him and come running. But, like Jaunt had all that time ago, those years ago, he'd already been cast aside and treated as a failure, someone not worth the matter of the ground that they walked on. Like his brother, this one too had underestimated him and his sidekick, while meaty and muscled, was no better. He didn't want to admit to anyone that he'd allowed John to fell him and so all he did was struggle as John squeezed on his neck and throat, bearing down and down and down with the heels of his hands bearing up under his chin until, with a great physical effort, he threw his body to the side, a sickening crack slicing through the air.

The man went limp, only one of them left breathing. John shook his head, flicking sweat from his eyes, and cursed under his breath, although he had no time in which to recover himself. Arms up, he wriggled free from beneath the crushing weight of the man, intent only on his next action. The knives were the obvious thing to grab hold of and he made quick work of pinning one down with the handle between his heels to saw through the ropes. And, once he had his feet free, new sneakers and all that he could have even used the laces from to rake through the ropes, having prepared. Donnie would have been proud of him for doing that, even if he would have scoffed first at John actually doing something sensible. And Donnie was just why John had to do what he was doing.

He left the body, freeing his wrists with the knives - convenient, he had to say. One clasped in his hand, a tool of death to make a statement. His heart pounded, mouth dry, the lust for life flowing through his veins. He didn't want to die, every last particle of his being clinging to life as if to an anchor in a storm, bobbing and swaying on a tumultuous sea that could hurl him down and down into the sordid depths at any moment. The only way to keep going was, simply, to keep swimming.

The wooden hut with bare floorboards, undoubtedly, offered little solace and the door creaked open, the nightmare advancing, squelching through muck and mud, brown, dead leaves underfoot but sinking down into the filth without any note of noise. The knife glinted, a droplet of water running down to the tip, pointed to the floor as if he knew that there was nothing more to fear, his place secure, despite the aches and pains of his strained and beaten body. But now that nightmare was John and he grinned like a madman, hair roughed-up and harried, as Jaunt's brother spun to face him, eyes wide. He hadn't gone far then, simply not wanting to be the one to do the dirty deed itself: what a weakling.

"Surprise."

A whispered threat and one that was followed through in the lunge and flash of a knife, John barely pausing to take note of the woodland around him, flat, broad leaves heavy with moisture as if from recent rain. There was no time for his target to flee and it was almost disappointing just how quickly the battle was won, a fight without any glory as John cut and stabbed, ripping into the man over and over again, nothing more than a hunk of useless flesh, the light dying from his eyes. Only one of his hands boasted a cut where he'd tried to get it up in time to protect himself, expecting, of course, that nothing unexpected would happen. And that was just where the fault in that family resided, the stars misaligned for the destiny that was never theirs to take from the beginning.

If they'd been careful, they may have managed to escape. They may have lived for longer. It was not a shame that they did not.

John laughed harshly and brokenly, true mirth ringing through as he wiped the blood off his hands onto the brother's jacket. Still, he did not know his name, adrenaline slinking down cautiously as if his body still was not quite sure whether or not it could relax, release the tension it was holding for the raw and simple act of survival.

It was done. He could walk away. Sure, there would be questions about the bodies left in the woods but he could leave those for someone else to deal with. Not everything, after all, had to be his problem and he turned on the spot, arms outstretched, rain pattering down on his face through the thick, green canopy of leaves above.

Off scot-free... John threw his head back and laughed louder and louder, lips parting to allow sweet moisture into his mouth, cooling what had heated. There was blood there too and he spat it out with disgust, making a face and shaking his head. His hair should have been held away from his face but it clung to his cheek, damp and sticky with something that should have taken his due attention immediately but didn't warrant it as he exulted in freedom. He could see Donnie again soon - and Charles too. Although they didn't have to know what he'd done for them, that one could be his little secret to take right along with him to the grave.

And then pain. Clear, sharp, enlightening pain. For a moment, John didn't know what happened, trying to turn and finding something holding him in place, although there were no hands on him or anything. How strange was that? He blinked through the fog, something shifting in his back, and widened up eyes minutely, the dull, hollow laugh of someone that he knew all too well to his back calling him to the harsh reality of the situation.

There had never been any true escape at all.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging into flesh that, soon, would be no more, and Jaunt's bared teeth filled his vision, a savage grin like no other that he had ever seen before or would ever again have the good grace to see.

Again, the knife sank in from the front this time, Jaunt's face haunted and hollow, cheeks sunken in. John could not have begun to imagine the horrors he'd been through since they'd last been face to face but it was not the matter of the moment as the blade cut through flesh, Jaunt's coat pulling back enough to show a gun hidden beneath: just a pistol. It wasn't even all that much but John gasped and held the image of it in his mind. Where was his knife? It had been in his hand but he now had his fingers wrapped weakly around Jaunt's wrist, striving to get that blade back out of his guts. By all rights, he should have already toppled to the floor but his grasp on life was too stubborn to give up so easily even as blood soaked through his clothes, leaving him in a spill that could never again be regained.

"Never...send...a...boy!"

Jaunt hissed, shoving his face into John's as his eyes bulged, mouth open and closing soundlessly. The man who had plagued nightmares and brought half the city to ruin - that was before John himself had been more or less responsible for the other half - smirked, a gleam of drool on his lower lip. He was as deranged as he'd ever been but a droplet of water splattered down onto his forehead, trickling over his eyebrow, as the rain began to fall, an unseen breeze rustling through the trees.

John twisted, ignoring the pulse of pain in his gut, nausea-inducing at best and the worst... Well, the worst was something that one could not consider as pain ripped through him, clawing and grinding away at his false victory. He closed his eyes, blinking away moisture, the strain of holding on to his tentative thread of life as blood spilt out, hot and heavy, wearing away at him, bit by bit, more rapidly than he ever would have honestly have cared to admit for himself. He thought himself stronger than that. He was wrong.

Fool...

_ _

"You'll pay..."

But John was already paying and the world around him, even his own body, seemed to move in slow-motion as he lunged, letting the blade drive in deeper, reaching for the gun concealed under Jaunt's coat. His fingers could not grab it but it was enough for Jaunt to curse and reel away, putting the distance there that John needed, his strength gone but enough adrenaline pumping through his veins to drive him to the throbbing, pulsing crescendo, the climax of the grand event itself.

It was show time.

The knife turned, breath raking and cries muffled, broken on eardrums drowned out by the pulse of a heart destined to stop - but which one? The knife flew out of Jaunt's grip as he cursed and scuffled for it, striving to kick John away at the same time as he lunged, two bodies crashing down into the mud in a splatter of muck. They wrestled, elbows digging in and limbs flying, but no curses passed by the lips destined for breath and breath alone: for as long as it would be theirs.

And then John's arms were around Jaunt, blood soaking into his assailant's shirt, wrenching and grasping, the safety released and John squeezing the trigger without even knowing if it was loaded. He didn't even aim, head spinning and vision greying out, but the bang and slam of the bullet into the meat before him could not be denied.

One.

Jaunt's hand flew up, a hot line of pain erupting across John's neck. His resolve hardened. Blood thudded between his ears, pounding, driving, forcing him on.

Two.

Jaunt went limp, head lolling back, his mouth a gaping cavern of death.

Three.

Three bullets, although more lives than bullets had been taken by the man. There was no light in his eyes and he died swiftly, which was a better end than he deserved, John staggering away with little in his mind.

Donnie. Where was Donnie?

Blood poured from his throat as he slumped to the ground, slipping down an incline into a ditch, which may as well have been dug out especially for him. It was as good as any grave as the rain fell, washing life-blood into the soil as his blood left him in a rush, seeking sustenance elsewhere, although its semblance of life too was gone and dead.

No one had survived.

But he had not gone out alone, not gone down without a fight and, sometimes, with a life as ragged as John's had been, that was all a man could hope for. There was nothing to flash before his eyes as they slowly closed but his family, throat tight and pain a throbbing force that seared through his entire body. With so much pain thrumming through, there should not have been room for any other emotion at all but his chest swelled, knowing that, at least, he had taken out the only one who could really have sought to bring down Donnie, even if Charles was, more or less, a passing fancy for the powers that were.

He'd done something that would never be spoken of. It was fine, just fine, even if some twisted part of him still thought that he deserved some sort of accolade or award for sacrificing himself - weren't people heralded as heroes for that kind of thing? Ah, but he was no true hero, just a sinner dying in the dirt in a sinner's garb, not even having the strength left in him to lift his head or twitch a single muscle. Mud filled his mouth and he welcomed it in, the heaviness in his limbs towing him down and down and down into the depths of the earth. There was no ocean to swallow him up as the rain pattered down, a soft melody to a man's final moments and, perhaps, the best that he could hope for.

The weight of the onyx pendant weighed heavy on his neck, metal marked with the blood of both his enemies and himself. It was superstition to think that it would help him any but the presence of it, in some strangely twisted fashion, was comforting merely for the fact that it was there, a futile and feeble connection to a life once lived.

The city would live. Donnie, above everyone else, would live, taking their empire forward. Not that he'd ever wanted for anything, he never would want for anything ever again, not even if he sat back and merely lorded it on his fortune.

Tired. So very tired. Best to sleep. Best to let it all go.

His eyes closed on the world.

Maybe Donnie will forgive me.

_ _

And then John knew no more.