When Bransen stepped from the washroom, mindfully crossing to the edge of the bed in his towel, he took in the sight of the emergency supplies distributed across the wooden table and made a discomforted face in anticipation for what he knew was inevitably coming next. Thankfully, his foot hadn't been bothering him much in the shower, so long as he leaned his weight off it appropriately, so perhaps the damage hadn't been as bad as it initially felt? (Wishful thinking, he was sure.) Giving the wounds a warm rinse seemed to soothe them, honestly, if only a little, but he'd admit, it was still prickling with a relentless soreness and the pain was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

Having not meant anything by his own remark, he faintly flushed at Dave's dry retort about leaning in to appreciate Bransen's newfound scent of cleanliness—though, if the suit noticed, delightfully, he didn't seem to comment. At the other man's steady command, Bransen scooted back obediently from where he'd planted his rear, careful not to let his towel slide loose from round his narrow waist despite still being covered by means of his undergarments. He wordlessly bemoaned, scrunching his eyes briefly at the dread that came with his mental preparation. Lifting his foot to rest it's heel over the middle of Dave's thigh, Bran settled back onto his palms and slouched in the prop of his arms, tilting his head backwards to stare up towards the discolored patterns in the ceiling tiles.

“This might sting a little,” Dave had thoughtfully warned, howbeit unnecessarily. That goes without say, Bran nearly quipped back, however, when the cotton ball dabbed gingerly across the still-weeping lacerations, instantly igniting each wound back to life with a renewed vigor, the engineer promptly lost any words before they could formulate. Instead, Bran hissed audibly through the tight clench of his jaw. “Ah, fucking—!” he cussed, hands balling into fists against the coverlet of the bed. His leg jerked instinctively, bending at the knee in an effort to retract, but Dave's free hand closed at his ankle, mooring him to place while he tended carefully to the injuries. With a groan, Bransen dropped to his back and pressed both hands over his face to muffle its agonized sound.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for the burning sensation to cumulatively show signs of dwindling back down to a dull throb. By the time Dave began to apply the numbing lotion over his foot, the pain was subdued enough that Bransen was able to relax the whole limb again, dropping his hands listlessly down from his face. “Oh, my god,” he groaned, blinking disconsolately through his throe while the suit procured a needle from the table.

To Dave's well-intentioned question regarding the most mundane of details—the color of Bran's stitching thread—he wanted to retort, ill-mannered and churlish, by saying, Do I look like I give a damn? I'm not strutting down a runway, for god's sake, but—No, better not. That was the tenderness talking, he was sure, and he willed himself to bite his own tongue. Be fucking civil, he chided, reminded of the fact that what Dave was doing for him right now was actually a favor and, yes, he should be more grateful for the assistance, lest he be left hobbling around with an increasingly inflamed appendage while they carried about their merry way. Wouldn't be like this in the first place if it weren't for him, an ornery side of Bran's mind accused, snappy and inconsolable. And, yes, while that may be so, if it also weren't for Dave, the likelihood of Bransen being dead in a ditch right now with a bullet between his eyes was nearly inexorable. So, grow a pair and deal with it.

“Black is fine,” he strained to say, pushing himself upright onto his elbows as the suit saw to his sutures. Oh, lord, he couldn't watch. Bransen quickly averted his eyes when he saw the needle going in towards the arch of his foot. He'd never done well with needles to begin with, but, now, it just felt sickening to realize he was being patched up by one. At least he couldn't feel much with his nerve endings seeming so apparently overtaxed. Little blessings, he told himself, chewing his lip absentmindedly while Dave worked.

Once the suit had finished his handiwork to his liking, smoothing the white athletic wrap over the mending with bearably calloused hands, mindful as well as tender, Bransen was given his leg back, already feeling much better than it had latterly. It felt like his foot was actually holding together through the injury now, instead of further compounding. “Thank you,” Bran said earnestly to Dave, pivoting from where he sat on the bed to bring both legs up onto the mattress and cautiously sprawl out.

At Dave's announcement that he'd be washing up, Bransen watched the suit's back while it retreated into the bathroom and, briefly, he considered rifling through his own pile of clothing to retrieve the small cell phone from the pocket of his borrowed hoodie. Not that there's anybody you could securely call right now, he reminded himself, Nor would Dave much appreciate the deceptive behavior, should he happen to find out. All very valid points, unfortunately. To play it safe, he'd sooner wait until his next opportunity, or at least until morning.

It had been a sweeping surge of exhaustion that ultimately prevented him from taking any action, Bran liked to tell himself, and, truthfully, he was grateful for the bout laziness because, in the end, Dave, to Bran's surprise, only afforded a minute or two to preen over his own cleanliness before returning back to the main room. Understandable, the engineer thought, pushing tentatively to his feet just long enough to drop his towel and drape it across the arm of the chair. Bran figured that if he was this tired, than Dave must be fucking teetering on his heels right now, verging on a collapse. The guy needed some rest if they were expected to make it to New York in a safe and timely fashion and so Bransen couldn't rightfully pass any judgment.

Dave killed the lights and they clambered into the single bed together, each to their own respective side. Bransen stilled momentarily before resting his head down on his pillow, a ripple of uncertainty burgeoning in his chest, making him oddly anxious. He knew why he felt cramped—the abnormal closeness left him feeling crowded and strangely short of breath; like he was breathing through a tube—but couldn't seem to shake his apprehension, even after settling down with his back turned to Dave's side of the bed. He was, after all, essentially naked and vulnerable, voluntarily cozying up beside the guy that had sacked him like a tackling dummy somewhere in a shoddy alleyway (—and that wasn't to mention the kidnapping or the torture).

Come to think of it, all things considered, this—this moment, right here—was probably the most intimate moment he'd come to share with, well, anybody during the span of his employment at Hawtholders. Oh, wow, romantic, Bran thought caustically, trying not to roll his eyes at himself while he shifted to get comfortable, Though, if you want to get technical, it's probably safe to assume you've been officially “terminated” from their payroll books by now, so... (Technicalities, whatever.)

Before getting too snug in their positions, Bransen sighed unsteadily and, speaking into the darkness while he tucked an arm beneath his pillow, he muttered offhandedly to Dave: “I should like it if you didn't ditch me here tomorrow morning,” he said, not necessarily anticipating a response. Of course, he was mostly being facetious and his inflection was abiding enough to convey as much. After all, the suit had already proven to have much more of a conscience than that, so he was speaking more out of jittery tension than genuine fear and he was sure Dave could decipher as much. “Spending the last days of my life in a shoddy motel is hardly the most glamorous way to go, I'm sure,” he quietly muttered, words being met with silence.

He imagined Dave had probably already nodded off in his exhaustion, so it didn't take long for Bransen's eyes to pick up on the concept and follow suit. Despite the bed being small and uncomfortable and dipping inwards to its center, it was still almost indulgent being able to stretch out on a real mattress for the first time in a couple nights and Bran hadn't realized how much he missed having the luxury of stretching his legs until he was finally able to do so once more. Sadly, by that point, he hadn't the strength to remain conscious for its thorough enjoyment.

Sleep came hard and, after several hours of blissful dormancy, the sun reluctantly rose into a cloud-free sky, peeking through a slit in the thick motel curtains to shine a long and thin band of light across the shapes in the bed.

When a sharp elbow was suddenly connecting to Bransen's face—at least, he thought it was an elbow, anyway (had no real way of knowing for certain)—the strike instantly jarred the engineer awake in an obscenely crude fashion and, well, he was less than thrilled about it, to say the least. “Ah, fucking—!” Bran cussed, abruptly jolting to groggy attention as pain instantly blossomed over his cheekbone. Cupping a hand to his face to scrunch his eyes, he nearly slipped right off the bed as he recoiled from the blow, hissing miserably before steadying himself on his outer arm and lifting his head. “Fucking hell, Dave—Christ!”

Pushing himself upright, letting the bedding pool into his lap, Bransen sat up and momentarily rubbed at the sensitivity beneath his eye to knead out the lingering sting. It wasn't until after he'd finally blinked the sleep from his eyes that he acknowledged just how close he and the sleeping suit actually were. In his snoozing, Dave had apparently crept his way unconsciously towards the center of the bed, overbearing the smaller man towards the edge of the mattress, leaving Bran with hardly had room leftover to wiggle, and, in his profound state of rest, had unintentionally swiped his bed-mate’s face. Bransen could feel the suit's warm thigh pressed against his, heated skin touching skin, and he promptly shifted his leg to ax the physical contact, drawing his knees up diffidently beneath the quilting.

“Hey,” Bransen beckoned uncertainly, swallowing dry before reaching out a hand to nudge Dave's solid shoulder. “Wake up, you loafer,” he said, studying the other man's unguarded face carefully.

Dave wasn’t thinking about anything about their situation being romantic. He was focused entirely on sleep, which Bransen promptly interrupted with some irrelevant comment about ditching him in the morning. Dave let out a groan into the pillow in response, something he hoped was indicative of the fact that he wasn’t interested in discussing that, or discussing anything else, for that matter. “Sleep, Berkman.” He muttered. If he didn’t get some sleep, then he wouldn’t be going anywhere in the morning. It only took a few moments for Dave to fall asleep, but his sleep was far from restful.

Dave dreamed about New York, and about his father. The dream was… unrealistic, of course. He was trying to find a way to get to New York, but every road that they were going to take was patrolled. The men were wearing black suits, and they looked as menacing to Dave as he had probably looked to Bransen. Somewhere in the dream, they had to ditch the car and were on foot. When they finally picked a road, sirens followed them immediately, and he could hear the radios of the suits, his father’s voice on the other end, demanding that they arrest Dave. Permission to use lethal force granted he heard the stern voice command, and then the guns came out. Dave felt a sharp pain in his leg as a bullet hit his shin (though the man was unaware it was more likely to be Bransen’s heel hitting his leg). He fell to the ground, and asked his partner for him. “Berkman, give me a hand.” Bransen had been a few feet ahead of him at the time, and the man stopped before turning quickly on his heal. “You expect me…to aid you? Is it possible that you are such an imbecile that you perceive us to be working in some sort of comradery?” He asked. The suits were getting closer, and Dave was barely able to follow what he said. “You are, quite simply put, a Neanderthal. And evolution is not sympathetic to those individuals who do not possess the skills that are compulsory in the quest for survival. It is your time to die, suit. I only maintain the wish that I had been given the opportunity to dispose of you myself.” He sighed.

“You can.” Another voice chimed on. One of the suits approached the pair and gave Bransen a gun. It was only when he was close that Dave recognized the salt and pepper hair that was so neatly trimmed, and the clean shaven face that he has seen more in pictures than in his actual life. Davian’s father gace Bransen a gun, and the man regarded it slowly, turning it over in his hands. Davian’s father began to apologize to Bransen, and say that they knew he was in the right, and Dave had been the monster. “He deserves to die.” The older man agreed, and then took a step back so that Bransen could pull the trigger.

Dave threw his arms up to cover his face, and heard the gun fire before he was started from his sleep by Bransen nudging him. Dave opened his eyes in surprise, his heart pounding from the stress of the nightmare. He was holding onto the pillow tightly, and it took him a few moments to gather his composure once more. His eyes flickered to the window and he groaned. “Is it morning? It is morning, isn’t it… I don’t do mornings.” He rolled over and buried his head in the pillow once more, unaware that he was finally giving Bransen a bit of space, or that he had been a heat-seeking missile the night before.

Though Dave wished it, there was no way that he was really going to go back to sleep now. He knew they had to keep running, that they had to get going to New York, but his dream had been far from pleasant, and he wasn’t ready to face the day. After a few more moments of trying to bury himself in the blankets, Dave rolled a bit more and managed to get completely out of the bed before standing. He was in his boxers and the t-shirt that he had been wearing beneath the button down. He didn’t particularly care if Bransen saw his tattoo, or the cut on his own arm that he had hastily stitched back together not too long before. He had changed the bandage the night before, but it would be best to change it again soon. “I am going to take a shower. We probably have hot water again, after your spa last night.” He complained, though his complaint was mostly about being awake in the morning. “I can change the bandage on your foot again this morning if you need it, and show you how too. In the meantime, if you can tolerate walking, you should see if this place has one of those continental breakfasts, or at least coffee.”

Grabbing his clothing so he could go into the bathroom, turned back a moment later. “I like my coffee like a goth kid likes their…everything. Black.” He said, and then closed the door behind him. Dave would take longer this time, actually taking the time to get clean, and hoping the Bransen would manage to find food somehow. A part of him wondered if the man would run, and another part of him hoped that the man would. Things would be so much easier if they were apart, for Dave at least. Though the man thought he was better on his own, his dream had made him question that a bit. He exited the room with damp hair, and enough scruff on his face to make him actually wish he had gotten a razor at that CVS the night before. At least he exited the bathroom fully dressed, and he dried off his arm quickly so that he could do his own re-bandaging first, incredibly grateful that it didn’t seem to look infected, despite the hasty method he had used to close it in the first place. If Bransen had was there, he would look around expectantly for the coffee, and hopefully something sweet for breakfast as well. If he wasn’t, Dave wouldn’t likely be too concerned yet. Instead, he would enjoy his peace and quiet, savoring it while it lasted.

When Dave all but jolted awake to Bransen's mild nudge, piercing eyes suddenly snapping wide and round with surprise, Bran jerked with a start of his own and retracted his hand quickly from the other man in response. “Jesus,” he huffed, not at all unobservant to how Dave gripped tightly to his pillow, clearly drawn from the clutches of an alarming dream.

“Yes, it's morning,” the engineer confirmed a bit breathlessly, a small crease of concern forming in his brow as he watched Dave twist over to his opposite side, pivoting his back towards Bran. The engineer wasn't inclined to ask, but part of him had to wonder what it could have possibly been that so blatantly disturbed the guy in his dreams. Everyone had their demons, sure, but Bran imagined Dave's would've had to be some pretty hardy ones to so profoundly disconcert the guy as they had.

Casting an inadvertent gaze to Dave's backside as the suit reluctantly rolled out of bed, leaving Bransen alone 'neath the sheets, the smaller man took in the sight of his companion's comparably modest state of disrobe as it was unveiled, permitting a cursory glance that was brash and sweeping as it assessed, and, fleetingly, he noticed the unassuming shape of a barcode tattoo on Dave's forearm. He'd spotted it and logged it, though had hardly been given what he'd call a close enough look, so, again, he didn't bother with asking—not yet, anyway.

Dave cast some snide remark over his shoulder about the warm water finally being back as he moved wearily to the bathroom to wash up, but, having just woken himself, Bran could hardly muster the strength to issue a solid parry in return, let alone trouble himself with being agitated by the sardonic attitude. So, instead, emitting an air of something not unlike indifference, Bransen rest his slender arms on his knees and opted to wordlessly watched Dave's retreating form until it reached the bathroom doorway. From there, the suit rotated back around to face the smaller man momentarily, informing the engineer of his coffee preferences, and, consequently, Bran nodded his head slowly in acknowledgment.

Dave vanished into the washroom and, at the closed door, Bransen made a disapproving face before scratching his nails absently through the unkempt mop of his own dark hair. He brought his fingertips down to graze lightly over the lingering soreness in his cheekbone, feeling for tenderness, though the sensitivity was quickly fading, and he sighed as he peered about the emptiness in the room.

Given that he was warm and—yeah, okay—relatively comfortable, despite the warped springs in the body of the mattress, Bransen was quick to learn that he too was unenthused about climbing out from under the covers. Sleeping for another two or three hours would have probably done him some good, all things considered, but, still, they needed sustenance and, apparently, per Dave's best judgment, Bransen was just the man to acquire it for the both of them. Whatever, he thought apathetically, tossing the seasoned bedding back.

Bransen swung his legs off the mattress, mindful as he settled his feet to the floor, and, when he added the whole of his weight, coming carefully into a standing position, he was thrilled to discover he wasn't in such crippling agony as the night before. Oh, sure, it still hurt like sodding hell, but, at least, now, he could apply some pressure to his feet without wanting to crumple to the ground in a miserable, sobbing heap. The bandaging must have been working wonders, holding all his wounds together and keeping his foot from splintering apart.

Temporary as it may have been, Bransen did what he probably shouldn't have and took full advantage of his newfound sense of strength, pushing himself through the dulled ache to expeditiously dress himself, ignoring how his limbs complained at the stress and strain. He gingerly tugged his jeans up over narrow hips, drawing the dark hoodie over himself, and Bran promptly rummaged through some of the materials Dave had carried in from the car last night to, then, locate the cheap loafers and slip them cautiously onto his feet.

Amidst his search, Bransen's probing hands came across a thick wad of cash tucked deep into the pocket of the duffel bag and, as he drew it out to study the wrapped bundle of bills, he was almost rueful to acknowledge the shameful idea that came unwillingly to mind: Could just ditch the suit and make a run for it, you know. (Right, 'cause he was so sure he'd make it to New York without Dave's supervising leadership and assistance.)

True, it felt like he was taking a bit of a gamble in trusting Dave, but, unquestionably, the suit had contacts Bransen didn't—connections to people he could probably rely on—people that would have more resources available to their disposal. So, not only was ditching the guy a stupid idea to begin with, but it was also a disgraceful one that shouldn't have even crossed Bran's mind considering how much Dave had done for him—how much he'd sacrificed for him—just to get Bransen free—just to carry them this far.

The engineer glanced to the closed door of the bathroom with a profound sense of guilt, feeling the weight of the cell phone at the front of the sweater like a burden bearing down in his pocket. Had it not been for Dave's hasty actions, he might be dead by now, and so, as much as he hated to admit it, he owed the guy more than an unwarranted disappearing act. It was common decency, after all, and he considered himself a decent individual by nature (if not a little cheeky).

Bransen pried a few bills loose from the stack of cash, tucking them in the back of his jeans before dropping the original wad back to where he'd found it and, after heaving another sigh, yielding and long-suffering, he navigated to the room's door, giving its handle a sharp twist.

Finding the small breakfast room was easy enough, even as he awkwardly hobble-limped with a strange gait towards the front office of their shoddy motel. The harder task was finding something wholesome that would pass off as half-nutritious or, well, even edible because, quite frankly, none of it looked safe to eat to him, let alone appetizing. Bransen poked through the piddly selection of breakfast items available, scrutinizing the soggy fruits and dubiously eying overcooked meats that had long since gone cold and hard from their initial presentation. Despite not housing many guests—he assumed as much, anyway, since he'd yet to see a single soul—the extensive spread of serving trays was left mostly empty, suggesting he'd either been fortunate enough to miss the morning rush or, maybe, simply that the management just didn't really cared enough to keep the tables brimming with appealing provisions for their guests.

Spotting a vending machine beside the coffee maker, Bransen meandered over to it instead, trusting prepackaged goods leaps and bounds over the stuff that had been sitting all morning, muggy and picked-over. Blessedly, he was delighted to find more tempting items there instead and, using the cash he'd pilfered, Bran bought a pack of toaster pastries, a muffin, and cheese Danish to bring back to the room. He collected his spoils and his change, making sure to grab a cup of plain, black coffee for Dave before making his way back to the room.

When he returned to the room, Dave was already back out from the restroom, looking more well-groomed and alert than he had been when he first climbed out of bed. Since his hands were essentially full and already combating the excess length in the long sleeves, Bransen bumped the door shut behind himself with his hip, letting it close with an audible click, and he mannerly extended the cuppa joe to Dave. “Here,” he murmured softly, setting the paper cup down on the table if Dave didn't accept it. “I dunno how you can choke that stuff down,” he said offhandedly, taking a graceful seat at the end of the bed, easing himself off his foot again.

After depositing the plunder in a haphazard presentation on the bed in the hopes that Dave might find something to his liking (though he truly had no idea), Bransen swept a stray lock of hair from his eyes and thoughtfully observed the suit while he began re-bandaging the wound on his arm—the very same wound Bransen himself had inflicted on him. He couldn't watch for very long without feeling another strange bout of guilt overcome him, he realized, and, before Dave could get very far in his task—or, hell, before Bransen could really even stop himself—the engineer shifted on the bed, closing some of the relative space between them. “Here, let me,” he insisted succinctly, motioning an outstretched hand to Dave that beckoned 'come hither'.

Whether Dave agreed or not, Bransen would push his long sleeves back as far as they'd stay and quite matter-of-factly say, “I may not be a doctor, but I can tell that's an odd angle for you. You'll do better to have it properly wrapped.” Bransen's fingers seemed cold as they met Dave's bicep, circumnavigating the limb in a light, mending grasp that fluttered with mild uncertainty. “I owe you for tending to me last night, anyway,” the engineer added, peeling back the remainder of old bandaging to inspect the injury. The sight of the healing wound made Bransen swallow tensely and his eyes flitted up to Dave's briefly in a doe-eyed look before re-affixing to his new chore. Collecting fresh dressing from the nearby materials on the table, he conversationally asked through his concentration, “So, I imagine we'll be back on the road soon, right? Maybe another day's drive at worst?”

Hearing the door open, Dave’s gaze shot upward, and one hand instinctively went to the bag that contained the weapons he had pilfered from Hawtholders. Fortunately, it was only Bransen, and the only thing he was struggling with was a variety of foods that had obviously come out of a vending machine, and Dave’s coffee. He accepted the paper cup quickly, letting it warm his hands before he began to sip it. At Bransen’s comment about it being difficult to drink, Dave haphazardly shrugged. “It grows on you.” He said, and took a large sip before looking over to the assortment of things that Bransen had acquired from the machine. He glanced over the assortment, and then helped himself to the muffin, peeling off the wrapper before drinking a bit more coffee. “Wanna split the poptarts?” He asked, since there was an obvious imbalance between the number of people in the room and the number of items that Bransen had gotten. “Or you can get me a pack of my own.” He grinned. Dave wasn’t in a particularly sour mood that day, even with the strange dreams. Having the time to shower helped him re-center himself a bit, and as he bathed, the dream faded away until he barely remembered more than Bransen talking circles around him, and his dad being in New York. Since neither of these things were false, or particularly noteworthy, he was able to let it go quickly.

After the food was settled, Dave began to get his own wound sorted out, not sure what they would be stopping again in the evening, and whether he would have time to take care of it later. The suit noticed Bransen moving closer to him, and he glanced over to the man before he heard Bransen offer to…do what, exactly? “huh?” He asked, pausing what he was doing long enough for Bransen to take control and push his sleeves up and suggest that he would wrap it instead.

“That’s alright.” Dave chuckled a little. “I’m not a doctor either.” He said, glancing down at Bransen’s foot. Did the man seriously think that Dave had any medical training whatsoever? As Bransen touched his bare skin, Dave flinched a little, and then immediately scolded himself mentally for flinching do to only the man’s cold fingers. The engineer said that he owed Dave, and the man grinned a little before lifting up his coffee with his free hand. He wasn’t going to protest—if Bransen finally wanted to start pulling his own weight, then that was all fine and good.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked when he saw Bransen look up at him a bit nervously. “If you would rather just take a shift driving the car--that is fine too.” He suggested. It wasn’t like Bransen needed to sew the wound shut or anything. It was just a matter of dabbing it with disinfectant, drying it, and then placing a clean bandage on top. However, things that seemed easy to Dave were not necessarily going to seem common sense to a ‘learned’ individual.

Bransen seemed content on continuing though, and Dave humored him by continuing the conversation. “Yea, we can probably get there tonight, but by then the roads will be a bit dangerous, so I would rather wait till morning. I figure we can find one more motel tonight near the city. It has been too many years for me to feel comfortable walking around the streets as late as we would probably be if we rushed. The plan is still the same though, yea? We get new IDs and go to Canada and just…disappear?” Dave wanted to confirm it with Bransen again, even though there had been no information that would sway the decision otherwise. Once Bransen finished with his arm, he would offer to look at the foot once more before beginning to pack up their things.

“It’s weird, I keep reaching into my pocket to check my phone. I am so used to getting notifications, or even just checking the time…It makes me feel like I am missing something when I don’t. Do you feel like that?” Dave asked, oblivious to the fact that Bransen, in fact, did have a cellular device in his pocket. Of course, Bransen wasn’t using it for the things that Dave was suggesting, but he was misinformed all the same.

“I think we can take the same car there…but if you want to switch it up again, I can go hunting for different plates.” Dave suggested. Unlike Bransen, he didn’t have any problems walking, and now that he had actually gotten some sleep, he didn’t particularly mind doing the leg work. Within an hour the pair would be back on the road, the beginning of another long stretch of driving, and hoping that New York would bring them some sort of peace.

-.-

It was three in the morning when the door to the storage unit finally opened. Melissa Thompson stood there, in a pinstripe suit with her heals that seemed to have a way of avoiding all of the puddles that had formed with the rain. She looked upon the scene with her perfectly manicured nails (underneath a thin set of black gloves) and styled hair, in a way that one might have expected to see from someone going to a business meeting, rather than having just been dragged from bed.

In fact, Melissa had been in bed when she got the message. HILDA had sent a notification to her home device detailing suspicious activity of Davian Tucker’s personal accounts. Hilda had used that piece of information, and completed a search to find out where he was. Unfortunately, both Davian and Kit were revealed to be nowhere near the storage unit. The software then pulled up footage from the unit, finding that Davian had left with their suspect, putting him in the trunk, but Kit had not left. There was no camera that could see inside, but the GPS footage, when lined up with the video, found that Tucker had both of the cellular devices. Two quick withdrawals followed by excessive use at a gas station gave the computer enough data to compute with 70% certainty that the man was running from Hawthholders, and so Melissa Thompson was summoned.

If Kit was awake, she would merely gesture to the large black vehicle that waited outside of the unit. She had honestly expected him to be dead, and if he was unconscious, she would step forward into the unit and quickly check her pulse. As had been the case with Tucker’s phone, Thompson had the clean-up crew on speed dial, and they would be called to make sure the unit looked like nothing suspicious had occurred here. Hilda took care of wiping the tapes of the unit, though. The drive back to headquarters wasn’t far, but Thompson didn’t give Kit the chance to say much. There were two large suits that had opened the door for him, and sat on either side. Melissa had been sitting in the front passenger seat, busying herself with giving Hilda updated protocols for the search. Thompson didn’t speak a word to Kit until they were in one of the holding rooms in one of the Hawtholders buildings. She escorted him to the room, which was adorned with only a single table and two chairs. There were cameras, so that Hilda could run scans of his sweat, facial expression, and other body ticks to determine the truth or fallacy of his statements.

Melissa followed Kit inside, and took a seat on the opposite side from Kit. She crossed her legs and slowly pulled off her gloves, laying them on the table beside her before turning to Kit. “Explain to me, Mr. Marshall, the course of events that led to you losing not only your acquired target, but your partner, and the stolen documents that you were originally tasked with returning.” She stated, her words firm and her gaze stern.

“Take 'em,” Bransen said of the PopTarts, giving his head a subtle shake in the negative when Dave offered to split them. “The Danish will be enough to tide me over a few hours,” he said, and it was true. Being so lithesome as he was, he didn't require too much fuel to operate and he knew there was more than likely enough sugar packed in the baked snack to energize his slighter limbs—'til the early afternoon at least—so he was happy to be left the snack. Anyway, Bransen wasn't feeling particularly hungry at the moment, so the toaster pastries didn't sound altogether too appealing at the moment anyway. He left the Danish untouched while he tended to Dave's arm.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” the suit had asked, momentarily diverting Bransen's hyperfocus from the devoir of dabbing his wound with a clean cotton pad. At first, the engineer hadn't any idea to what Dave had been referring when he posed his question so, impulsively, a faint crease formed in Bran's brow when he looked back up at the other man, bewildered. Am I sure about what exactly? he almost demanded, Running away with a stranger? Or leaving my life and loved ones behind to forever wonder whatever might've happened—what might've come about my fate? How can I possibly be sure about any of that?

It was only when Dave pressed on, suggesting Bransen take shifts with the driving that the engineer realized Dave had only been responding to Bransen's mien of apprehension. “Oh,” he said foolishly after the penny dropped, touching the back of one hand to his forehead, thinking, Calm yourself. Don't be so quick to get defensive. “Ah, yeah, it's fine,” Bransen insisted, “I think I've got it.”

Dave carried on by responding to Bran's light effort in conversation, mentioning possibly crashing another night in yet another motel. (Is this what their lives would become? Shitty motels and swapping cars? With any luck, the next stop won't be too much more dingy than this one, he thought dryly, dabbing an antiseptic over Dave's arm before gathering a square of sterile gauze, I mean, really, how shabby can a place of business truly get?) As Bransen's hand smoothed the dressing down, taping it snug and mindful, Dave asked, “The plan is still the same though, yeah? We get new ID's and go to Canada and just... disappear?”

Oh, god, no. Please, no, Bransen thought helplessly, feeling a swell of panic burgeon within him, simmering under his skin and roiling testily to the concept. With round eyes, he regarded Dave for a moment, almost like he was unsure whether the suit truly expected a verbal acknowledgment to the question or not, and, briefly, he hesitated, mouth parted and breath bated. “Uh... yeah,” Bran forced himself to say, almost under his breath, nearly grimacing at his unconvincing timbre. He considered his subsequent words a bit more carefully this time, turning them over mindfully before allowing them to thoughtlessly spill forth from his lips. “Sure,” he tried again, sound terse as he gave a nod, lowering his eyes back to his hands, “Disappear... It's—It's the best option, right? Makes sense.” Ah, fuck, he didn't know—and the suit surely wouldn't either.

It sort of struck Bransen then that they were both just a couple of fucking idiots running blinding for their miserable lives right now, weren't they? Just two pitiful rats lost in a maze, scrambling to reach the end as quickly as possible, because, lord, it was becoming dizzying and the stakes could never be higher. Bransen certainly had no experience with getting himself on the wrong side of the law and he was pretty confident neither he nor Dave had the faintest clue how to manage themselves with being proper fugitives, so, really, right now, all they had was each other. This wasn't an engineering problem, much to his dismay, nor was it a mathematical dilemma that merely required solving. It's not like there were step-by-step instructions with which to reference—a manual that might feed them all the answers, or some calculations to process that might bring about a sudden epiphany... No, this was real life and, the fact of the matter was, they were well and truly fucked. The last thing—The very last thing Bransen wanted to do was to vanish from the world, forgetting who he was and everything he'd ever wanted to become, but... Honestly, what other choice did they have?

Dave was talking idly about his cell phone then, chatting aimlessly and making Bransen think of the impossibly heavy weight in his pocket. Overwhelmingly, an uncontrollable amalgamation of anxiety and fear and regret rapidly began to mount in Bran's throat, knotting up like a fist and cutting the air from the engineer's lungs, nearly choking him of oxygen with guilt alone. Letting his grasp slip from the suit's newly bandaged arm, Bransen realized his own hands had started shaking just as Dave asked, “Do you feel like that?”

“Um, yeah,” Bran muttered absentmindedly, clearly no longer heeding much attention as betrayed in the scarce vacancy of his eyes. “Sorry, uh, excuse me, Dave,” he suddenly said, polite and mannerly, interrupting anything else the suit might have had to share, “I—I think I need to... rinse my face or something. I'm suddenly feeling a bit under weather.”

Before waiting to hear a reply from Dave, Bransen pushed himself to his unsteady feet then, moving in his hindered amble towards the bathroom, and, after closing it shut behind himself, he pressed his forehead to the bathroom door and released a soundless sigh, wavering and unsettled. He leaning into the door with a weary posture, careful not to put his weight on his foot, and he rested his hands flush on either side of his head, letting his eyes slip closed while he focused on his muted breathing.

Pull yourself together, Bransen thought, You've got a lot to come to terms with if you're still having this much trouble. It's not going to get any easier from here.

---

The world glimmered back into sight like a long-forgotten memory, transient and dreamlike. First there were shadows, and then there were the colors. And, finally... discernible shapes started to appear—figures and forms.

Kit could feel himself sprawled out on the ground, but his mind wasn't really focused on the uncomfortable position—half on his side, half on his chest, cheek pressed to the ground and legs pivoted at the hips in a discomforting kind of twist. Rather, his addled senses seemed to be acutely honed on the throbbing pain that stemmed from somewhere across the surface of his skull, beating like a goddamn drum in synch with the agonizing thrum of his pulse.

Thu-thump... Thu-thump... Thu-thump...

With a weak groan, Kit rolled listlessly onto his backside and his glassy eyes were reluctant as they fluttered open, combating the double-vision valiantly until the lines and form and angles of the surrounding structure finally started to show signs of making sense. Everything managed to ease back into focus, slow and incremental, reminding Kit of where he was and what he'd been doing...

He'd been on a job, he recollected, feeling himself perspiring in his abnormally hot clothes, dazed and confused. He was in a storage facility, too, that much he remembered. Had a partner at some point though, didn't he—?

Oh. Right...

Kit remembered lunging after Berkman suddenly, rendered blind in his rage on account of the meeker man's inexcusable sense of defiance and self-righteousness. (Just who the fuck did that little shit-stain think he was, after all, talking to Kit and his partner like that? He'd hardly been in a position to cop attitude.) It was a very rare thing for Kit to lose his temper with such profound force, but, somehow, the sniveling snot managed to make it happen and Davian—the useless, miserable, incompetent fuck he was—had done not a goddamn thing to help regain control of the situation, instead, letting it spiral out of management.

Like the corny climax of a halfwitted daytime soap opera, Kit found himself betrayed by his asinine excuse of a partner—knocked out like a bad cliché—and he very clearly could remember looking up once into Davian Tucker's eyes just moments prior to the blow being landed. There had been an undeniable fear in the suit's eyes, that was for sure, a fear gleaming from somewhere deep in his mind—somewhere Kit could almost taste—and that stirred a surge of irritation in Kit.

Dave didn't know fear—couldn't even comprehend the definition of fear. Not yet, anyway—not until Kit had his way with him. Kit would give that traitorous buffoon a real reason to be scared, so help him God, whether it was the last thing Kit did in this life or not...

What probably should have taken him only a few moments to recover from seemed to stretch on through the silence for days. (The result of a concussion, no doubt. It most certainly had not been days.) Knowing without checking that it would be locked, Kit inexpressively gazed at the closed door of the storage unit, unmoving from where he lay, losing himself and his perception of time as the seconds crept into minutes, eased into hours.

When the blessed sounds of a vehicle and voices and welcomed commands finally reached his ears, echoing from beneath the slim strip of light at the base of the door, drawing Kit's mind back from the boiling vat of inner hatred and anger and contempt, heaving him back to the present, the familiar heels of an always-immaculate Ms. Melissa Thompson came into sight, blinding him like the halo of an angel as the door rolled fully open, bathing him in sunlight.

The trip back to Hawtholders was systematic and predictable and Kit managed to keep his charming mouth shut throughout the duration of the escorted drive, knowing he'd only be kicking the hive if he pressed Ms. Thompson for details on the current situation. It wasn't until they were safely locked inside one of the holding rooms—a nicer word for interrogation, he was now realizing—that Kit was finally addressed by the woman, smooth and formal as she crossed her lovely legs.

Kit coolly eyed her from across the table, regarding Ms. Thompson with a practiced air of ease, and, with a muffled sniff, he lowered his bloody handkerchief from where it had been pressed against his nostril, stifling a second spell of bleeding that had been triggered from Dave's blow to his face. He could feel the crusted blood inside his nose, stinging and uncomfortable, having dried and congealed while he was unconscious. Kit didn't appear hurried in his behavior and, to emphasize as much, he took a soothing drink from the proffered glass of water sitting beside him and Ms. Thompson's leather gloves on the otherwise empty table.

Having satiated his thirst, Kit then wet his lips with a quick swipe of the tongue, setting the glass cup down quietly to ponder his following words:

“Ms. Thompson,” he said civilly, leaning back in his chair and offering as nice a smile as he could muster, easygoing and composed. “I can understand how you may find me to be... a very convenient target right now,” he started, mellow and mannerly, “Believe me, I am very sorry that this... shady, off-the-books manhunt of yours has so quickly become derailed, but—”

There was a beat—a brief pause where Kit, suddenly shifting gears, changed his mind and decided, instead, to lean forward eagerly, resting his elbows on the table, handkerchief crumpled in one hand. “But, with all due respect,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “it was that incapable lunkhead that your crew assigned me with—your team—who has compromised this mission... Not myself.”

Kit watched Melissa steadily, intensely, feeling hot and dizzy still, though knowing he couldn't afford to focus on such trivial discomforts right now. “You'll pardon my candor when I tell you that, no, I didn't loose the target or the documents or my goddamn boneheaded partner,” he exclaimed, well aware that a simple misstep—in this room, with this audience—might very well lead to his undoing.

He gently tapped his index finger at the center of the metal tabletop, drawling out matter-of-factly: “You did... Clearly, HILDA is defective in her programming—inadequate in her ability to calculate these types of quandaries. She was designed for this very sort of thing, was she not? If only your team had been more thorough, we may have been able to predict such a confounding level of betrayal from Mr. Davian Tucker.”

Kit let the words settle in the room for a moment, hoping for the best, because, honestly, how ticked he was, that was probably as good as it got for now. He was surprised he wasn't visibly trembling with fury. With any amount of luck, Ms. Thompson wouldn't order a prompt bullet through his head right then. (Though... that might help with the pounding headache.)

“I think it's pretty clear to all parties involved that Mr. Tucker has become somewhat of a traitor to the cause,” Kit seethed, feeling the hand that balled his handkerchief tighten with an inescapable frustration. “He's gone rogue, Melissa,” Kit boldly addressed, finding himself almost desperate (which was probably a fucking first for him), “He attacked me... I lost control of the situation... but you must know that I would never consider deviating from the job.”

Dave had always been good at talking to his friends. They had similar interests (granted, those interests were often for illegal activities) and had spent enough time together to know what the other people were comfortable talking about. Dave had not had such opportunities with Bransen. His first encounters with the man had been cordial enough, escorting him around and generally looking a little menacing. To go right from there to interrogation was hard on their relationship, though. Dave couldn’t get past the idea that he was just some thug, a suit, a body without a brain. Yea, his brain wasn’t huge, and he couldn’t do calculus or build planes or anything, but in his world, he hadn’t been dumb. He didn’t even think he was particularly dumb now. He was the reason they had gotten as far as they had, switching cars, plates, getting supplies, and doing things that would keep them off of the radar. He had made what he thought were the good decisions, and he answered Bransen’s questions as best as he could. The response he received from the man, however, was less than Dave had hoped. It was like he had taken two steps forward only to move three steps backwards.

The man had barely responded to his ideas, which were really just trying to confirm that they would continue to work together. Had he still been interrogating the man, he would have called him a liar in a heartbeat. The man looked sick at the prospect of continuing, and Dave could tell that something was very wrong. He had messed something up, but he had no idea what. Bransen mumbled something to agree with him, and Dave made one more attempt at conversation, talking about missing being connected to the net. Once they had new identities, they would be able to start that sort of thing again, make new friends and have new lives, it would just take time. Dave hadn’t changed his name when he had moved to Chicago, but he did have to cut all ties and start fresh, to maintain his own sanity.

The last attempt at conversing with his traveling companion, however, was met with a vacant look, and Dave knew that his words had meant nothing. The man made some excuse to leave, and stumbled into the bathroom. Dave sat in shock for a few moments, and then shook his head as he had gotten up. He wanted to tell himself that the stitches had just made Bransen a little queasy, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He had misjudged the man, thought that they could have a conversation, be somewhat friendly towards each other, but he was wrong. Dave cleaned up the supplies from the table, busying himself quickly so he didn’t have to think about the disappointment. He put aside enough things for Bransen to take care of his foot again in the car, whenever the man felt up to it. He then packed up the rest of their things and went outside.

It was probably best to get a new car, and so Dave looked around the parking lot for a few moments. He saw a few contenders, but decided to go to the front desk and check out first. Getting someone to come to the desk so that he could return the keys was annoying, but fortunately the man left the desk as soon as Dave was done, giving the man the opportunity to look at the lost and found siting behind the counter. He grabbed the two sets of keys that had been there, and brought them out to the parking lot to see what luck he had. There was a sporty-looking thing, red with a racing stripe down the middle, and a rather boring looking dark blue Jeep. While the little one was more his choice, he knew that it would be noticed quickly, no matter what he did to the plates, and so he picked the Jeep, grateful that this time he would have the keys. Again he switched the plates, cautiously since it was day-time now. Fortunately, it seemed that everyone in the motel was likely still hung-over from their activities the night before.

Once the cars were settled, he went back to the room and brought everything out, packing up the Jeep quickly and getting ready to go. All he needed now was Bransen. Dave went back into the room and knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, umm… I am ready to hit the road. The car is all packed, and we might want to get going before anyone notices… Oh it’s a dark blue Jeep now.” He turned and left the room once more, glancing over to make sure that he hadn’t left anything incriminating behind. Dave got in the car, and fiddled with the stations, hoping to find something decent to listen to. The second pop-tart still sat in the cup holder on the driver’s side, since he knew he would want to munch while he drove.

The passenger’s side was empty, apart from a plastic bag on the floor that had what Bransen would need to re-patch up his wound, if he wanted it. Their bigger bag was in the back on the floor. When Bransen returned, Dave would silently put the car in gear and begin to drive. He had failed miserably at small-talk before, and Bransen had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in conversing, and so Dave stayed quiet. He could do silence, and maybe even make it all the way into New York earlier, if they didn’t stop for food. He figured Bransen would prefer that, since he had gotten rather annoyed at the mention of having to stop at another motel for the evening.

-.-

Kit seemed to try to maintain his composure, which amused Thompson a bit. She sat quietly, waiting as he called HILDA defective, and put all of the blame on Tucker—convenient since he was gone. “Mr. Marshall.” Melissa Thompson finally stated when the man was done spewing whatever thoughts popped into his head. “Most individuals, when asked a question, see fit to answer that question. When speaking to me, most individuals see fit to reply concisely. I had yet to meet an individual, who not only refused to answer the single request posed to them, but instead babbled incessantly, saying nothing of any consequence, until you. And please, feel free to take offense to that statement, for I have spoken to your former partner, and even he boneheaded as he might be, was able to answer a simple question.”

Mr. Marshall was annoying. He was annoying, cocky, arrogant, and many other synonyms that she had no desire to name. If he had been a capable individual, then she wouldn’t have been in such a position, so early in the morning. “Perhaps HILDA does need some reprogramming. After all, she did predict that you would be capable of performing such a job, and clearly that was incorrect, and your intelligence was…over-estimated as much as Mr. Tucker’s loyalty. So I will take this incredibly slow for you.”

“You have stated thus far that Mr. Tucker compromised the mission, that he is rogue. Tell me how, and why. What changed in the storage unit that made Mr. Tucker side with the intended target and betray you? You have worked with the man, if only for a short while. I take it you did not predict such an extreme level of betrayal ahead of time, because you certainly would have called us up earlier.”

Melissa Thompson knew absolutely nothing about what had happened after they had captured Berkman. Something had clearly changed, because Mr. Tucker had taken the evidence and the man, and left. Had Berkman offered him money, power, drugs? She had predicted these circumstances before she thought that Tucker would have grown a heart and actually wanted to help the fellow clear his name and go up against all of Hawtholders. No, Kit Marshall was supposed to be the intelligent one, so for all Melissa Thompson truly knew, they had all planned this together. Hilda had run the analysis—of course the program was still highly trusted—and it was far more likely that Marshall had been the mastermind behind any plans made than Tucker would have been. Perhaps Marshall was left behind on purpose, to throw off Hawtholders while the rest of his new allies set up something else, or had time to get away.

Thompson hadn’t gotten anywhere in life by trusting people, and she had no intention of starting now. “I expect a full report of the events that transpired Mr. Marshall, immediately.” She said and clasped her fingers together as she turned to face him. If he would refuse, she would happily get her own interrogators in here to help him finish his report. However, Marshall still needed to prove his own innocence, and Hilda had given Thompson some indication that Marshall was running on very high levels of adrenaline, and a few other chemicals that implied revenge might be an apt route for them to use to control the operative. For now, though, Thompson would wait until the man climbed off of his high horse, and began to take responsibility for what had happened in the unit.

Hearing the front entrance to the motel room click shut with Dave's sudden departure, Bransen lifted his forehead from where it was pressed into the bathroom door and he paused both his thoughts and his breathing briefly—just long enough to gauge the silence in the bedroom, verifying that he was, indeed, now alone. Dave must have stepped out, the engineer thought, decidedly unbothered by this blessed moment of solitude. If there were ever a time he could have used one, it would surely be now while his anxieties were getting the better of him. There was nothing quite worse than loosing his head in front of others.

In a fluid motion, Bran pushed himself away from the door, dragging his half-crippled arse to the dismal porcelain sink by the toilet and, giving a squeaky twist of the faucet's silver handle, he pushed up the long sleeves of his borrowed hoodie as the water ran, eyes catching briefly to the sight of himself in the mirror.

God, he didn't even look like himself anymore—which was probably just as well, considering they were, you know, about to start new lives and all (in Canada, no less—of all places). In contrast to the heavy chestnut brown of the hair framing his face and the stark black of the oversized sweater enveloping his willowy frame, Bransen's skin looked exceedingly pale—paler than ever, actually, almost sickly—under the harsh light, giving him an ashen complexion, waiflike and cadaverous. At the lush hairline of his temple, the lump on his head had nearly completely receded in redness and swelling, having now faded into nothing more than a nasty bruise, scabbed over from where his head had struck the ground in the alley. It was still a bit tender, of course, but, thankfully, didn't seem to be causing too much of a fuss anymore. In a scant ring around his throat, a faint and near-imperceptible band of blotchy discoloration dusted his skin from where Kit's hands had encircled his neck and damn near choked him out. Bran absently touched his fingertips to the subtle marks near his Adam's apple, brow knitting into a scornful crease while he studied himself. Haggard thing, he berated, averting his sullen gaze when his hazel eyes met the solemn and sunken expression reflecting back, seeming tired and aged. He looked precisely as shitty as he felt.

Cupping his palms together to fill the bowl of his fingers, Bransen ran his hands under the steady stream of water—frigid cold despite being twisted to its hottest setting—and he hunched over mindfully to whisk the liquid 'cross his face in an invigorating sweep, sighing as the chill tingled his neck and cheeks with gooseflesh, stirring his senses. A second splash had him feeling a bit more lucid and clearheaded, but, even still, as he leaned forward, pressing his weight against the sink and his shaking fingers to his closed lids, he still couldn't seem to purge the shroud of guilt that bore down on him, even while his breathing evened out.

Face dripping, Bransen turned off the water, methodically drying himself with the nearby wash towel hanging from a ring in the wall. He reached into the front pocket of the hoodie, withdrawing the red phone for a moment to assess it through the subsequent stretch of pregnant silence, and, ardently, he considered whether to flatout ditch it or not, contemplating the device's overall value versus its potential detriment. Dave would probably have his balls on a platter if he discovered Bransen was hiding such things from him right now—while their situation so red hot and dicey—so it might be better to simply rid himself the temptation overall, eradicating that urge to make one final call to his drunkard mother. When his grip trembled scarcely under the tension, Bransen reached down and opened the lid of the dirty toilet, readied to drop the mobile in the water and relieve himself the indiscretion altogether. Hell, the phone couldn't have weighed much more than four ounces en masse, but, strangely, the damn thing felt ready to burn a hole through his pocket, suggesting it was certainly more trouble than it was worth. That alone should have been enough reason to do away with the Motorola... and, yet...

Frustrated with himself—and his miserable tendency for inconvenient indecisiveness—Bransen sighed brusquely then, exhaling a surly groan while he stressed his bangs into an aggravated grip with his opposite hand. Just staring down at the blasted thing, he wanted to yank his goddamn hair out. It shouldn't have been that hard to simply drop a phone in water. Just get rid of it, you fucking moron, his brain chided, You're asking for trouble. But, truth be told, there was just... no way he could do it—none at all. The prospect of being able to reach out to her one last time—just in case—was far too much to let go of. He simply couldn't. If he ever called her, of course, he'd promptly destroy the device, but that was neither here nor there.

Now clutching desperately to the phone, the engineer's hands came up to either side of his head while he ambulated the small room, pacing himself through another irrefutable surge of anxiety and self-doubt. He gripped the rim of the sink bowl in an effort to anchor himself to something, forcing stillness that felt like it was gradually slipping away with his sanity, and, through the static buzzing, Bran could feel his pulse beating through his quivering limbs, distantly discerning the sound of his own rapid breathing, short and erratic. Calm down, calm down, he thought, trying to soothe himself, leaning the weight off his bad foot when he realized it was protesting in pain again.

A knock at the door had him jumping and he damn near dropped the phone in the sink with an audible clatter. “Hey, um... I'm ready to hit the road,” came Dave's voice from the other side of the bathroom door, “The car is all packed and we might want to get going before anyone notices.” Lifting his head to the mirror again, brow sweating, Bransen swiped a palm over his face to brush the stealthy tears from his cheeks, sniffing quietly, and he replied curtly over his shoulder, “Sure... I'll be just another moment.”

Clearly, the time for a mental breakdown had come to its unavoidable end, so, collecting himself from his nervous collapse, Bransen somehow refrained from retching his guts as he tucked the phone deep into the back pocket of his jeans, concealing it once more with an unsettling swell of nausea. Somehow, he'd have to manage to live with the guilt—at least for the time being—and, for now, hopefully just convince himself that he wasn't really hurting anybody unless he made an actual outbound call. Having fully powered off the device to conserve its remaining battery life, Bransen knew nobody would be able to trace it, even if, by some act of God, they managed to learn it was in his possession.

Bran was able to compose himself well enough for formal presentation and, soon enough, he found himself slipping gingerly into the front passenger-side seat of the newly acquired Wrangler Dave had so diligently readied for their continued travels. Given that he was only tolerably sore, rather than unbearably, the engineer's foot wasn't particularly irritating him at the moment, so he figured he wouldn't bother with re-bandaging it until a later time, if only to preserve the bulk of their corrective supplies.

They exited the semi-barren parking lot, recommencing their travels from where they left off the night before, feeling noticeably more rested, and, with the shape of the damning phone sitting just under his rump from where he was seated, Bran clutched distractedly to the untouched Danish in hand, stressing his thumb over the sealed edge of its plastic wrap. He tilted his head aside to ease the back of his skull against the headrest behind him, letting his thoughts carry off while he gazed longingly out the window, and, for a time, he fantasized he might soon wake up and discover this all to be nothing more than a bad dream—but he doubted he'd become so fortunate.

Dave, for all his effort, kept to his stony self through a lot of the ensuing drive, adjusting the radio station as needed, and, in return, Bransen too held his tongue, respecting the mutual silence that neither man seemed inclined to interrupt. He was far too wary of the capricious emotions that simmered just beneath the surface of his affected poise, knowing fully well he couldn't trust himself to keep his mouth shut if it started flapping uncontrollably. So... for his sake and for Dave's, the quiet was best... It would do for now, anyway.

---

“We had the target restrained, of course,” Kit started cautiously, taking another generous drink from the glass on the table. Setting the beverage down quietly, he swallowed tight, feeling an increasing press of uncertainty with his initial approach to this exchange as Ms. Thompson assiduously held her ground, unfazed. Clearly, she was not the type of bitch to fold to aggressive technique—as demonstrated in the way she brazenly counter-insulted Kit and his respective intelligence—so, if anything, he'd only irritated her by coming into the discussion so gung-ho and confident. Bad move, Marshall, Kit reprimanded, leaning back in his chair a bit stiffly, straining to maintain his suave attitude.

“To help get Berkman talking, we—we used necessary force, even though it was for naught, in the end.” His eyes were steady as they met Ms. Thompson's, unwavering and composed. Kit didn't think it would be an issue confessing to a bit of torture since, after all, they'd been hired to essentially bring Berkman to a stop by any means necessary. “What happened was the target began refusing to cooperate,” he explained, “Berkman wouldn't confess to much else except being framed by Hawtholders, even after the suit pulled a knife on him, and... I think, grasping at straws, he was trying to reach out to us or something—make us feel bad for him, or relate to him, maybe... But, he was more than fucking delusional. He was desperate.

“As the target continued to resist, he—” Kit heaved a long-suffering sighed, heavy and mildly abashed, rolling his eyes aside as if reluctant to admit: “Quite frankly, Berkman just ticked me off... He got under my skin and, to prove a point, I—I went at him... Attacked him... I wasn't going to kill him—” Not intentionally, anyway, was a thought that went unsaid, “—but, fucking Davian—” Kit's hand came up to press his temple, feeling his headache pulse with agitation. “I don't know what the hell inspired Mr. Tucker to—to do what he did... but it happened, nevertheless. I can only figure that Berkman's pleas hit some sort of... soft spot in him or something, because... the next thing I know, the stupid suit's coming at me from behind, knocking me from Berkman and bludgeoning me unconscious.”

There was a pause in the air—a beat that hung heavy between he and Ms. Thompson while Kit leaned forward to dab his nose again with the bloodied handkerchief. He was seemingly unable to sit still through his perturbation—which probably didn't look too good according to HILDA's readings, he was sure—and, while he relived the series of events in his mind, he watched Ms. Thompson back carefully, saying earnestly, “I don't know what changed so suddenly to make Davian go wayward—and that's the damn truth. I can only speculate... Berkman was scared, but he wasn't feeling the right kind of intimidation and he—he kept insisting the gravity of his guilt was nothing compared to the crimes that Hawtholders would be implicated in once he reached the proper authorities... Seemed pretty confident the intel he'd stolen was enough to condemn the entire syndicate—” Kit swallowed, recalling the enormous sums he'd seen in the spreadsheets, “—and, he was right, you know... But, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.”

It took bit of sturdy contemplation—a fleeting passage of time where Kit measured whether confessing the extent of his knowledge would be too castigating or not—but, upon determining that attempting a lie would probably be in the worst of his interests right now, Kit reluctantly admitted: “I had a look through the documentation myself so, I know what it is that Bransen Berkman saw.” The tightly-knit woman across from him didn't give the appearance of being shocked to learn as much, so he continued, “There was some pretty incriminating stuff in those papers, Ms. Thompson; shady payoffs, transactional receipts—that sort of thing... It's quite a nasty paper trail to keep under lock and key, especially when your security measures are barely scraping that of menial, at best.

“Financial currency is a worldwide barrier-buster, so it doesn't take a genius to decipher what it all means. It isn't hard to make sense of a dollar from a ruble,” Kit's voice had lowered to a more collected (and suggestive) intonation, making him sound, thankfully, less distressed and, pleasantly, more matter-of-fact while he spoke, “It's pretty clear that Hawtholders is acting as a front to more... enthusiastic and global pursuits and I suspect, with Mr. Berkman's newly acquired assistant, your fugitives both aim to expose as much...”

---

Bransen's head lolled listlessly to the side and, with a muted start, he reopened his drooping eyes, bringing his head upright again and inhaled softly from his side of the vehicle. He blinked blearily through his unexpected spell of exhaustion, unsure of why exactly remained so tired when he'd been lucky enough to get a full night's rest, and, shifting in his seat to sit more upright, the engineer glanced sidelong to Dave, peering towards his partner with an inspecting sort of gaze.

Bran had been inclined to ask how long he'd been teetering on the cusp of sleep—because, frankly, it felt like it had only been mere seconds, but a quick glance at the clock suggested otherwise. More than an hour had already passed since they departed their motel so, at some point, he'd dozed off, however unintentionally.

Dave, like himself, might've been feeling the drag of the afternoon sunlight as it beat down on the highway stretching endlessly before them, so Bransen, rubbing his eyes, politely asked, “Do you want to switch?” He cleared his throat when it came out sounding a tad hoarse. With any luck, Dave may not have noticed his little slip of consciousness, being too focused on the roads, but it wasn't like Bran was holding his breath or anything.

Of course Dave had noticed the other man fall asleep. He had wanted to strike up a conversation many times, though he had always fallen short of forming coherent thoughts. Whenever he seemed to have something he thought was worth mentioning, he looked over and noticed the man was, indeed, still unconscious. He would have felt stupid, waking Bransen if he wasn’t going to say anything important, and he usually decided that his random commentary was lacking in the intellectual quality that was no doubt necessary to hold Bransen’s interest. Thus, Dave kept his comments to himself, even though he clearly saw this woman picking her nose in one of the cars that traveled along-side him for a little while. He noticed a humorous license plate, FRM MYX, though the car took an exit after only being in his vision for about a mile. Dave briefly began to track the models of the cars as well, though he soon lost track of whether he was seeing the same vehicles again, or different ones, and so gave up.

Over an hour passed, the station he had picked was fortunately still working alright, the time during which they were under bridges aside. He had seen a few signs for attractions that could have been worth a visit, if the pair weren’t running for their lives, of course. No, had Dave been traveling of his own accord, or with some of hide friends, he might have suggested stopping off. He could almost imagine the look of anger that would have surfaced on Bransen’s face if he had woken up outside of some ‘world renowned brewery’…especially if Dave had abandoned him and gone inside. Dave laughed to himself at the thought, though he continued driving.

In all honesty, Dave wasn’t used to the kind of quiet that Bransen perpetuated. He was used to small talk, and random talking about trivial things. Even though he had nothing to say, he still had trouble with the silence. Eventually, it was Bransen who broke it, and Dave almost called out in victory for having held out longer than the other man. It should have been an extra victory because Dave actually had to be awake the entire time he was driving, while Bransen got to sleep for almost the entire drive. Dave glanced sideways as the other man was rubbing his eyes, and asked in a hoarse voice if they wanted to switch. “You sure you can stay awake?” He asked in response, not even giving the thought enough time to process. It was meant to be a friendly jab, but Dave was doing a horrible job of remembering that Bransen wasn’t a friendly person. Had he waited a little longer, he might have realized that the offer on Bransen’s part to actually do something to help their situation was so rare that it needed to be cherished, rather than poked with a stick. Indeed, in Dave’s mind, Bransen had done almost nothing since they had paired up. It was a miracle that the engineer had survived as long as he had, really, with how uninvolved he was in his own life.

“Sorry, uh. Let’s stop somewhere and get a quick bite. Then you can drive if your foot isn’t too fucked up.” Dave added after a few moments, knowing he shouldn’t have poked fun at his driving companion. Dave figured if the man tried putting pressure on it and couldn’t walk, then driving would be out of the question, at least for a while longer. A few moments passed, during which Dave saw an exit sign that had denoted a few food places that would be coming up on an exit about a mile or so ahead of them. “There are quite a few places coming up… Which do you prefer, McDonald’s or Wendy’s?” Dave inquired. Most people asked McDonald’s or Burger King, however Dave already had an item in mind that he couldn’t get at the King. If Bransen chose Wendy’s, Dave would spoil himself with a frosty. If they chose McDonald’s, then he would get a McFlurry. Either way, Dave would be content for a while longer, and wouldn’t have to resort to drinking just to finish the trip. He planned to get food as well, but it was the desserts that determined where Dave wanted to go for food.

He glanced once more at Bransen as he pulled into the parking lot. “Do you want to go in?” Bransen didn’t look…that bad, and Dave figured that the other man would have to pee at least. He certainly did. Dave would have gone through the drive-thru to get the food if Bransen was uncomfortable, but either way he would end up parking for a bit, so that they could eat and he could use the bathroom. Dave would get some real food as well, if a burger and fries could really count as real food, of course. The fries would be dipped in whatever frozen drink he acquired, using that as his condiment of choice. “You ever have fries dipped in ice cream?” He asked Bransen before putting another one in his mouth. Dave had planned on saving them for the road, but that was already quickly failing, and then the car would smell like fast food, which was another reason that he should enjoy the food now.

-.-

Melissa had made it clear that she meant business, and apparently Kit was bright enough to realize that he wasn’t going to talk circles around her. He began to explain that the target was restrained, and they used force. She didn’t bat an eye at this—and frankly would have been surprised if they were trying to get around using force. She had, after all, given them plenty of tools with which they could garner information. Had she believed that Bransen would have fessed up to everything, then she would have simply brought him in and skipped the whole affair with the brain and the brawn.

Mr. Marshall seemed to realize, at the very least, that Berkman was grasping at straws. So had his argument been convincing enough to sway Mr. Tucker to join his side? There were two distinct possibilities that came to her mind as Mr. Marshall explained Davian’s actions; either Mr. Tucker had a conscience, and only just realized during the interrogation that Hawtholders had some less than wholesome activities, or Mr. Tucker was tricked by their captive into believing that he had something to gain by helping the former engineer escape from Hawtholder’s clutches. Mr. Marshall explained that Bransen got under his skin, that the man’s attitude prompted him to attack the other man, and it began to sound to Melissa as if Kit had lost control of the situation, forcing Mr. Tucker’s hand.

Her eyebrows went up a bit in response to Kit’s explanation, including the fact that he was bludgeoned unconscious. She had a good number of questions forming in her mind, but Melissa knew the benefits of letting someone finish composing their thoughts. They often answered the questions before she could ask them—or their rambling enticed them to give away some other piece of information that they had not intended on saying, something to help direct the guilt. Hilda’s readings during the interrogation would give Melissa quite a bit more information about the discussion she was having with Mr. Marshall. One of the most notable results would be the extreme degree to which Kit’s adrenaline rose as he talked about Bransen getting under his skin. It would become even more apparent that Kit probably would have done something regrettable had Mr. Tucker not been there to deflect from the situation. It would also tell Melissa that the likelihood of Marshall being involved in some sort of scheme with the pair was incredibly low. He was more likely to try to snap their necks than he was to be in league with them.

Kit tried to change the subject, bringing up the nature of the activities in which Hawtholders was involved. Was he seriously trying to put Melissa on the defensive once more? Of course she knew what activities they were involved in. Unless he was saying this because he wanted some sort of pay off. The stupid man suffered the same flawed reasoning as many other men had before him. He believed that he was important, that he mattered. He was just a cog in the machine, a grunt worker necessary only to carry out the tasks that Melissa deemed unworthy of her time. And apparently this man wasn’t even good for that. The only reason he was alive right now was that he had information that was very important to the security of the company. “The security measures within the walls of Hawtholders have been re-evaluated. Of that, Mr. Marshall, I can assure you. I can also assure you that what goes on inside of Hawtholders, especially the affairs of the payroll department, are absolutely none of your business.” Melissa leaned forward on the table a bit, her ability to maintain her composure rather eerie in some ways. “What you need to decide, Mr. Marshall, is how you will continue to be an asset to Hawtholders from this moment on.”

Taking a deep breath, Melissa straightened and stood up from the table. “Hawtholders is continually growing and improving. Without us, this world would be in the dark ages. Our pursuits are, indeed, global, and every good company needs good, loyal employees. So I would like you to take a few hours, Mr. Marshall. Compose yourself, sleep, go to see a medical provider in our care wing if you deem fit. Then, by noon, decide where you fit into Hawtholders' mission, and come to my office then with your decision.” Giving him a few hours would give her time to ho have him watched, see if he did anything that would make her more suspicious of his loyalty. Of course, he could do all of the things he needed within the Hawtholders buildings themselves, but he would be watched via camera. Melissa would be able to confer with HILDA, and decide what they were going to do with Mr. Marshall. He could be a valuable asset, but she needed to run some simulations and decide if he was worth the risk of keeping alive any longer.

“You sure you can stay awake?” Dave had asked in return and Bransen's subsequent lapse of silence had less to do with the fact that he was offended by the playful jab and more to do with how he, well, genuinely wasn't sure how to answer one way or the other. When he'd made his offer to trade places, it was out of a friendly notion, but, upon thinking about it with heavier consideration, he realized he was probably too exhausted to carry on for much longer than an hour or so before he'd require Dave to change places with him once more—thereby making it a pretty pitiful offer to have even made to begin with. (Not that Dave needed to know that.)

The suit spoke up again before Bran could reply and, at the suggestion for a food-stop, the engineer nodded wordlessly in agreement. He was feeling low on energy still, even after having gotten a decent night's rest, so getting some sustenance in his stomach would probably be the next best order of action. With any luck, it might help wake him up a bit, too. (Where'd that damn Danish go? he idly wondered, trying to remember when he'd even consumed it.)

As they came to an exit off the interstate, Dave queried about the choice in restaurant, to which Bransen simply deadpanned, “I honestly have no preference,” leaving the decision entirely to Dave's own tastes. Naturally, being so thoroughly engrossed with his work all the time, Bransen rarely had the pleasure of indulging himself in fast food until a time when his pantry was absolutely barren and he could hardly spare the energy for a trip to the grocers.

One of the reasons he was so naturally thin (apart from having the metabolism of hummingbird, that is) was probably on account of the fact that he was in the poor habit of eating somewhere between only one—maybe two meals per day, if he was lucky. And, even then, those main courses usually came in the form of late-night frozen dinner trays, dirt cheap and fucking effortless. (Not to mention, chock-full of sodium and preservatives. Super healthy.) Frequently, while he was ardently engrossed with assembling delicate components, it was either the roiling sound of his own empty stomach or the telling sight of a scant tremble in his fingers, indicative of hypoglycemia, that served as his distracting reminders to refuel his willowy body. Either way, feeding himself was almost a hassle most of the time and, because it was such an easily forgotten task, it had almost become an irritating chore for Bransen to make time for it nowadays.

Thankfully, he wasn't currently wrapped up in the procedure of constructing sophisticated technology—technology that, by the way, if damaged in development, could've easily cost him a year's worth in salary to replace—so Dave's suggestion was more pleasing than annoying and Bransen found himself coming into a fuller consciousness as they pulled into the parking lot. (God, he could smell the french fries already and it was making his mouth water.)

Dave asked the engineer about going inside and Bransen, after a moment to ponder, shook his head in the negative. “I think it would be best for us to limit our exposure to surveillance cameras where we can,” he tentatively explained, remembering the sickening feeling of seeing his own recorded face on the Fortino's television screen back home. He hadn't even been considering the surveillance cameras back then and, now, the thought of simply walking into a restaurant, where the lobby would be monitored with menial security measure at best, was profoundly distressing in itself. Bran was pretty sure Hawtholders wouldn't have immediate access to such small establishments, but... It was always better to be safe than sorry, right?

He looked to Dave for any kind of affirmation, hoping that the suit would agree. As Dave had correctly suspected, Bransen did indeed have to use the restroom, but the engineer insisted on them entering the building separately from one another. Individually, there was a slim chance they might be less recognized than if they were standing side by side to each other. (Plus, he might admit to being a bit bathroom shy on occasion.) When he'd effectively locked himself in one of the two empty stalls, Bransen took a moment to inspect the cell phone in his pocket, opening its battery compartment in a paranoid compulsion to check for, well, bugs or something, knowing in his heart that was an absurd fear. He made sure the device was still properly powered off, quickly washed his shaking hands, and promptly returned to the Jeep for food.

God, if the smell hadn't already been tempting enough, then the sight of the meal alone would have done the goddamn trick. Bransen resettled eagerly into the passenger-side seat of the parked vehicle and, together, he and Dave dove headfirst into their first real meal of the day. After a couple minutes of preoccupied silence, Bransen sighed a happy sound while they ate, filling his belly with the oversized portion that was his fattening burger, and, when Dave suddenly asked him about dipping his french fries into ice cream, Bransen glanced over to his companion questioningly, chewing with an expression of curiosity until he could safely swallow the mouthful. Bran took a sip of his soft drink, amusedly admitting, “I can't say I have... That sounds terrible though.”

However, Dave didn't seem to think so. With a beguiled scrunch in his nose, Bransen watched Dave as he dredged a couple more warm fries into his frozen dessert and the engineer nearly grimaced as they disappeared into the suit's open mouth. Nearly. While the other man chewed, Bransen couldn't be sure why he noticed Dave's tongue when it briefly darted out to swipe the man's lips clean, but he did. He noticed how it moistened the suit's mouth in a naturally unconscious movement, giving a slight sheen to Dave's lower lip, but, thankfully, the moment he realized he was watching, Bransen was keen enough to promptly look away, busying himself with fishing into his meal bag for a few fries of his own, mortified for having even observed.

Having pivoted partially in his seat towards his companion, Bransen asked the suit, “Could I try?” And, if Dave had been at all reluctant about sharing the ice cream, he didn't make it very well known as he extended the cup to the smaller man. Because of this, Bran didn't feel too guilty about dunking his fries experimentally for a prudent dip. He scooped just enough dessert to taste, but not enough to wholly savor like Dave might and, making an ambivalent face, Bransen popped the fries into his mouth, uncertain, sure, but he was nothing if not a curious creature, willing to push the conventional boundaries from time to time.

“It's not bad, I guess,” Bran ruminated after a moment, smiling modestly. He swallowed the morsel as his taste buds were practically tingling from the sugary chill and, reaching into the paper bag again for a few more unsweetened fries, he added conversationally, “I must be more of a traditionalist though... I don't think I could mix my meal with my dessert. That's like mixing business and pleasure.” Oh, jeeze, did he really just say that? Smooth, his mind chided. Bransen was pretty confident Dave wouldn't pick up on the unintentional double entendre since, well, it'd been he catching himself as Bransen had stopped himself from ogling down at Dave's mouth like a virginal schoolboy, but, nonetheless, the engineer couldn't fight the urge to mentally kick himself over the Freudian slip. Surely, the last thing he needed right now was to spook his most valuable cohort.

Turning his attention out the window, Bran cleared his throat and added, hopefully for clarification, “That is... some people can manage it... but not me, I don't think.” Though, to be fair, that was mostly for a lack of trying on his part—and, well, not to mention, lack of general interest on the parts of others. Oh, let's not get started on this again, Bransen nearly rolled his eyes, taking another wordless sip of his drink to wet his drying mouth. Another thing he didn't need right now was to start feeling bad for himself on account of the miserable lack of activity with respect to his, ah, love life—if you could even call it that. (It didn't really make sense to put a label on something that didn't even really exist now, did it?) He'd have a chance to start anew, Bransen tried to optimistically remind himself. Maybe, with any luck, he'd have more opportunity to invest the proper amount of time and attention into that realm of his life once Hawtholders was safely out of the picture.

For now, though, that prospect just seemed... so goddamn far away.

Dave chose McDonalds, purely because he saw it first. He pulled into the parking lot, and for once was surprised that Bransen actually had a good opinion. He said it would be best it stay away from security cameras, and Dave nodded in agreement. “You have a good point.” He said. He hoped that they wouldn’t trace the pair to McDonalds, but if they had the software for the facial recognition set up with a wide enough area, it was possible that they would appear. When the engineer said that they should go separately, Dave agreed as well. Perhaps Bransen had just needed proper sleep, because he was actually seeming somewhat competent now, for the first time that the suit could recall since they had met. “What do you want?” Dave asked. “I will go through the drive through while you go to the bathroom, and then I will go a few minutes later, when we finish eating.” He explained. That would probably be the best way to avoid them getting noticed.

Fortunately, by the time Bransen emerged, Dave had gotten the food and parked the new vehicle. He might have ordered a bit much, getting a very large fries and drink to go with his meal. The McFlurry was in addition, and he was sorely disappointed about the size. They were seriously getting smaller. The suit probably should have been more worried about money, but he knew that they would unload the car in NYC, and hopefully make some cash from unloading some of the other things that Dave still had from Hawtholders. Of course, he needed to talk with Bransen about what they would sell. The gun might come in handy, but they didn’t have a permit, and if their car was searched on the way to Canada, they would be fucked. It would be safer in lots of ways to get rid of all of it, and they would have enough cash to make it to Canada and go their separate ways, should they both actually make it that far.

Dave was enjoying the silence, though that was entirely because he was preoccupied with the food in front of him. He didn’t notice the way Bransen ate, though if Bransen had woken at a few inopportune moments of the drive thus far, he might have found Dave’s lingering upon his face for a few moments longer than necessary to simply affirm that the other man was still sleeping. Bransen wasn’t an unattractive man. The problem was simply with his personality. The engineer acted as if he was better than Dave, just because he had more book smarts. Dave didn’t like that quality at all. It was the same quality that Kit Marshall had; the man had always acted like Dave was some sort of lesser being, a stupid suit, and even though Dave had only known both of these men for a short while, he found that quality incredibly annoying.

When Bransen said that it sounded terrible to dip French fries in ice cream, Dave shrugged. “Not everyone can handle the awesome that is French fried McFlurry” He said simply. When Bransen asked if he could try, Dave nodded and held out the cup. “You guess?” He asked, shaking his head with Bransen’s assessment. Bransen continued, saying that he couldn’t mix business with pleasure. It was a strange way to phrase the idea of dipping fries in ice cream, and yet again Dave felt like Bransen’s snobbishness was trying to come out. Why did the man have to overcomplicate things so much? He tilted his head a bit as Bransen looked towards the window and mumbled something about other people being able to do it….whatever it was. Dave was sure that Bransen was talking about something else entirely, but he had no idea what it was.

“You’ve got issues, Berkman.” Dave said, shaking his head. He ate another fry before he continued. “I mean, who considers any part of a McDonald’s meal to be ‘business’?” He asked, laughing a little. He wasn’t going to seriously question Bransen’s way of life, but the man had to have some serious priority issues if he considered either fries or McFlurries to be anything short of unhealthy deliciousness. The meal lapsed back into quiet, and Dave ate just about everything that he had ordered. When he was finished with his meal, he put everything back in the bag, and then stepped out of the car briefly to drop it in the trash. He still had a bit of soda left, but he planned to drink that over the next few hours. Dave went into the McDonald’s to pee as well. Though he wasn’t as bathroom shy as the other man, he hoped that the large gap between when they were seen would help prevent them from getting noticed. Returning to the car once he had relived himself, Dave waited until Bransen was done and ready to dump the trash before he spoke again. “Hey, do you want to switch spots and drive for a bit?” He asked, totally ready to take a bit of a nap. Though Bransen hadn’t answered him before, he assumed that the offer was still on the table, and his tone was rather pleased at the idea of getting a break with the driving.

Bransen agreed, and Dave moved into the passenger seat when the engineer got out to dump the food. He moved the seat back a little so his legs had a bit more room, and switched the soda to his side as well, getting a bit more comfortable in the seat. If Bransen asked, Dave would tell him which direction he needed to go to get back on the highway. After that, it wouldn’t exactly be a difficult drive, and so Dave relaxed. He would fall asleep after about an hour if Bransen stayed quiet, but the man could easily stay up as well, and would certainly do so if Bransen looked tired at the wheel.

“You've got issues, Berkman,” Dave had said and, with his gaze still directed out the window, Bransen attempted a halfhearted smile in return, but its effects fell just shy of his eyes and the transient upturn of his lips was quick to slip from his face again while Dave continued eating. Tell me something I don't know, he sardonically thought. Bran knew the suit hadn't really meant anything by the remark, except maybe to tease him—he presumed to know, anyway—but Bran couldn't really force the amusement when he was still so caught up with diffusing his spontaneous bout of self-pity as it wracked him.

As he finished his own meal, Bransen crinkled up the paper that had been holding his burger, tossing it and the last of his cooled fries back into the bag from whence they came, and he popped open the door to the vehicle when Dave went inside to use the restroom. Stepping carefully, he deposited his trash into the wastebasket near the building and tucked both hands into the front pocket of the large hoodie, standing silently out in the open air for a peaceful moment, perched on the sidewalk in front of their vehicle.

The soft breeze was brisk, but the temperatures remained tolerable. Bransen marveled in the quiet for a meditative moment, listening to the nearby sounds of vehicles as they intermittently passed along the interstate and gradually faded off into the distance. They were out in the middle of nowhere, the engineer considered, turning his nose upwards to the cloudy skies above. The sun had been so relentless and unapologetic earlier in the day, beating down on the highway with energy-sucking rays that seemed to sap the strength right from Bransen's limbs. But, now, with this modest overcast and the subtle drop in degrees, it was actually kind of nice to feel the crisp air against his face.

Without meaning to, Bransen inadvertently remembered how frigid he felt after Dave had suddenly opened the trunk to let him out the other night, wordlessly granting the doe-eyed engineer his unexpected freedom, releasing him from his captivity. The harsh chill had prickled at his skin back then, biting his bared flesh with rows of teeth that were sharp like needles and injecting him with a blight that nearly morphed his bones into icicles. He'd been barefooted and beaten, utterly frightened for his life and terrified that Dave was about to nestle a friendly bullet between his eyes, but... it never came. (Not that he was complaining.)

Now, in a comparative study, the cold felt so very... different—so much more manageable—having soles under his battered feet and warmth enveloping his thin arms. The bath, the bandaging, the bed... All thanks to Dave—much as he might not like to admit it. My fucking white knight in shining armor, he thought dryly. And, suddenly, standing out there on the pavement (craving another cigarette after he'd sworn up and down to himself that he'd never start again, of course), Bransen felt like he was less a means to an end and more like he was being, well, cared for by the other man. But... in Dave's own odd and standoffish kinda way... Maybe.

Then again, he may have just been over-analyzing their entire predicament as a whole. Bransen didn't really take Dave as the type to put so much thought into things so contrite, so... god only knew why he was suddenly feeling so compelled to scour everything for a deeper meaning.

Though, in all honestly, they really needed each other to survive, if only for the sole purpose of substantiating their respective defenses against Hawtholders, should a time for something like that ever come to fruition. So, why wouldn't Dave tend to his injuries? Why wouldn't Dave show concern for his well-being, especially when Bransen's health was directly connected to Dave's only form of corroboration? Having betrayed the conglomerate, he now needed Bransen just as desperately as Bransen needed him. Leaving one without the other would leave them both just as fucked over as could be. Surely, Hawtholders didn't take too kindly to duplicity and, assuming their policies on treachery bore any resemblance to their policies on the theft of incriminating documents, well... Dave might very well have screwed his own situation even more hopelessly than Bransen's own.

The suit didn't take long in conducting his business indoors and, when Dave finally returned, asking Bransen about taking the wheel for a bit, the engineer nodded compliantly and carefully hobbled around the car to mount the helm of the Jeep without so much as a disgruntled groan. Having now eaten, he felt a lot more energized than earlier and, therefore, more confident in his taking control, so he figured he'd make the run as long as he was able, if only to give Dave an opportunity to catch up on some much-needed rest, should he require it.

Being the highly attentive driver that he was, both meticulous as well as concise, Bransen adjusted the seat and mirrors accordingly, fastening his belt buckle in and gripped both hands diligently to the steering wheel. His foot was still fiercely aching, no doubt about it, but Bran refused to grimace even as he eased it down on the pedal to back out of the parking stall. They promptly pulled out of the lot and, once more, hit the road, merging smoothly onto the highway to continue their trail...

---

In the few hours that transpired following his rocky “interview” with Ms. Thompson, Kit Marshall made a trip to the remedial bay for a cursory examination, as had been recommended, and, after getting the clear, he was properly drugged up on enough acetaminophen to last him the rest of the day—which was really just as well, considering the migraine that was clobbering through his skull like an unapologetic jackhammer.

Aside from that little nuisance, he felt fine, physically, but he couldn't very well lie to himself and pretend that his exchange with Ms. Thompson had gone entirely according to plan. Far from it, actually, he found himself reluctantly admitting, distantly wondering why he'd been so off his game in that interrogation room...

Ever since being dragged out of that damn storage unit, he'd been straining through an irritating torrent of pain that stemmed from the spot where Davian had struck him in the face and, as a result, it might've been hindering his level of cognitive clarity. Sure, let's blame it on that. Gradually, though, the sensitivity from the blow began to numb down into a dull ache as the drugs decided to finally kick in and, thankfully, Kit was able to sleep off the remainder of his discomforts in a dark and quiet space just down the hall from the medical offices.

Down there, a small, private room had been quickly arranged especially for him—provided generously by Hawtholders, of course—and, stretching out on the single sleeping cot, the redhead happily took a load off, toeing his oxfords from his feet before kicking back to rest his head on the underused pillow.

He snagged somewhere around an hour or two to snooze—wasn't really keeping track of the clock, to be honest—and, after having woken from his slumber feeling pleasantly revitalized, Kit was delighted to discover that his heavy doze was successful in diffusing most of the lingering frustrations he was experiencing towards his infuriating superior. (Now, with any luck, he could actually get his own head out of his ass long enough to actually convince Ms. Thompson of his competency.)

Kit took some time to clean himself up in the mirror, making himself formally presentable by rinsing the faint smear of dried blood from his upper lip and running his dampened hands through his hair in a relaxed kind of styling. It gave him a much more deliberate appearance than he'd been carrying up until now—more intentional and less post-hangover. He'd be damned if he fucked up this second opportunity to either recuperate what remained of his good image, if anything, or, at the very least, cut his losses where he could.

Before sweeping his rumpled suit jacket back onto his shoulders, Kit re-tucked his button-down shirt and readjusted his tie, once more applying the familiar sharp edges to his attire where he was able—without the aide of an iron, that is. His cellular phone was gone, of course—no thanks to his idiot partner—so, when Kit felt a small weight bump against his abdomen from the inner pocket of his tailored coat, crammed into the same spot his phone normally would've been kept, well... understandably, his brow knitted together in a mild puzzlement and his hand patted against the jacket to feel the shape of the thing.

Fishing the item out, Kit opened his palm to the flimsy blue pocketknife that had been in Berkman's possession the day they'd snatched his sorry ass off the streets—the same knife the engineer had used in a pathetic effort to counter-assail on Davian—and, distantly, Kit recalled listening to Berkman plead for the owner's safety as they tortured him, groveling on account of some other poor sod that, evidently, had the misfortune of also being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or befriending the wrong people from the wrong places, more like, Kit amended, turning the blunt blade over to inspect the faded name scratched into the side of its handle. He could see scant traces of browned blood dried to the weapon like ugly flecks of watercolor and, looking past the grime, he scrutinized the word 'Fortino', pondering.

With his thumbnail catching absently along the seam of the handle, a hopeful idea struck Kit as he weighed the pocketknife in his palm. Finding this Fortino fella would probably be the most promising first step in regaining the scent on Berkman and Mr. Tucker. Even if Fortino didn't know anything about their whereabouts, it would at least buy Kit some time to find other ways out of this hole he sensed he was beginning to dig himself into—and he was nothing if not self-preservative, always instinctively interested in the safety of his own well-being long before the well-being of others.

Slipping the blade unemotionally back into his suit pocket, Kit mindfully brushed his hands down the front of his well-fitted jacket, giving himself a final once-over and smoothing any wrinkles before finally turning on heel towards the door. He'd convince Ms. Thompson of his worth, one way or another, so long as he kept his cool, concealed his lividity, reminded himself desperately not to pull the bloody knife on the people paying him, and successfully feigned just the right amount of subservience. With the right amount of political tact, he might just walk out of this with his head on his shoulders still.

Standing outside the closed door to the interrogation room again, Kit took a moment to swipe his hand slowly along the side of his head once more, gingerly polishing himself and his presentation before twisting the handle of the knob and striding inside with a renewed purpose...

---

A large, wooden sign passed on the right-hand side of the highway, faded and weathered by the elements, reading “Village of White Haven” in a hand-painted, Old English font. Just another town in another county, breezing by in a gust of colorful billboards and restaurants and shopping centers—not unlike the hundreds that had seemingly come before it. (Admittedly, that was probably a bit of an exaggeration.)

Bransen wasn't sure what to expect once they exited Pennsylvania and, finally, entered the city of New York. If the passing amount of towns and metropolitans kept increasing at the rate they'd been pretty steadily climbing at for the past hour and a half or so, the engineer suspected they probably couldn't be too much further out from their ultimate destination. He knew that Dave might soon want to take over the wheel again because Bransen wouldn't have any idea where to even begin searching for the suit's, um—(Friends? Colleagues?)—associates. (Sure.)

Peering briefly at the digital clock on the console, Bran silently checked the cruise control after registering the time and he mindfully shifted his sluggish legs about, trying to wake them up, before turning his eyes in a cursory glance to Dave, who, after lunch, had drifted off fairly quickly once they'd reembarked on their journey. Bransen had never been one to mind being in a state of quiet—he thrived in it actually, and treasured being able to get lost in his own concentration—but it seemed to have the opposite effects on his companion and, after Dave had slipped off, the engineer was happy to maintain the vehicle's soundless ambiance while the suit caught up on some Z's.

Dave was a heavy sleeper, that was for damn sure, Bran thought with an endearing sort of half-smile. With his arms crossed over his chest and his temple pressed against the glass of the window, Dave was partially slouched into the groove between the front seat and the passenger door, head tilted back in a listless loll, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat, wholly relaxed. Bran could tell the guy was deep in the grip of a comatose slumber if only by the small parting of his lips. That, and he's also been immobile for the past hour, at least. The guy was probably exhausted...

Knowing as much, Bran may admit to feeling a little bit of guilt when he finally reached over to give a gentle touch to Dave's thigh, nudging him experimentally. “Hey,” Bran murmured, low enough to avoid startling the guy, but loud enough, hopefully, to at least be heard, “I think we're out about an hour or so. Do you want me to keep going along the I-80?”

The engineer was still hobbling a bit, and Dave couldn’t help but wonder if he had patched up the wound well enough. He knew the supplies that he had made the cut with were clean, but there was still the potential that he hadn’t cleaned it out well enough. Bransen had even climbed out of the trunk and stepped on the dirty ground. If Bransen’s wound got infected, they would be fucked. Hospitals were…complicated, with insurance, proof of identity, questions being asked…they were problems that Dave didn’t want to deal with. He might be able to argue that Bransen stepped on a blade, but Dave was not interested in someone asking that many questions. The fewer the questions, the better, and the best way to avoid questions was to avoid going to the hospital, and so Bransen couldn’t let that wound become infected.

Maybe Bransen just had a low pain threshold, or wanted Dave to feel guilt over what he had done. Strangely enough, though, Dave didn’t really feel guilt about any of it. He had been doing his job, and he had prevented Kit from going completely bat shit on the captive. Hell, he was practically a hero, compared to Kit Marshall.

After watching Bransen for a few moments, Dave got into the passenger’s side, doing absolutely nothing to adjust the seat. He was courteous enough to put on his seatbelt, but he was more one to shift in the seat, rather than adjust the seat itself to find a comfortable place. In a strange way, their car habits in that moment told a lot about their personalities. Dave was one to deal with the cards he was given. He didn’t think about how to change the circumstances of the situation, but he adapted and he dealt. Bransen liked to have things a certain way. He was more demanding, and he felt like he needed to manipulate the world around him to suit his tastes. He disapproved of what Hawtholders did, and so he had taken their data and ran away with it. He influenced things, rather than letting them influence what he did. Did that make Bransen more proactive? And Dave reactive? That might have been a bit of a stretch of the metaphor. Perhaps Bransen simply adjusted the seat because he was shorter, more neurotic, or an insecure driver.

Dismissing his other thoughts, Dave paid attention enough to get Bransen on the main road before he promptly passed out in the passenger’s seat. Unlike the night before, he didn’t have many dreams. He slept soundly, and heavily; he didn’t even attack Bransen. It seemed like only a few moments before Bransen nudged him, needing something. Dave ignored the first nudge on his thigh, shifting a bit to continue sleeping. When the pestering didn’t cease, and was followed by words, Dave reluctantly opened his eyes and lifted his head. “Is the car on fire? Are there cops?” He asked, his lips working a bit slower than he had wanted, making his words come out a bit sore. His head and neck were damn sore from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. How had that seemed comfortable when he went to sleep in the first place? He let out a groan, though Bransen might not be able to understand what he was trying to convey from it, or from his previous words. The sun was still out, though it was beginning to set. Dave shifted a bit and turned to the man, the grumpy expression on his face the result of having just woken. “Yea” He said, finally processing the words that had accompanied Bransen nudging him awake.

Dave removed his arms from the crossed position they had held, and he turned to face Bransen. “We want to keep on the I-80—“ He paused to yawn and then continued, “Basically till we get to the New Jersy Turnpike….That’s another…. 90 miles away…ish, I think…. If we do that, we will be stuck in the city after dark… Even I am not in the mood to do that. And I have no desire to deal with the turnpike after dark. So let’s find a place to crash for the night. In about… an hour, hour and a half. If we start seeing signs for the turnpike, then we definitely get off quickly. I know it’s early, but we both need the sleep. Then tomorrow, first thing we can track down the right people and hopefully be out of the city again by nightfall.” It was an ambitious hope, and relied heavily upon Dave’s former associates not all being in jail, but it was the only chance they had. “Does that work for you?” Dave asked, though he couldn’t imagine Bransen disagreeing—and having any other suggestions worth considering.

--
Kit Marshall was given a few hours to rest and get ready for the meeting. In the meantime, Melissa Thompson had cameras on him. She slept a little, but made sure that she looked impeccable before a single soul saw her. At 7:30 am, she ran on the treadmill in her office, watching three different screens with information about what Marshall had been doing. Kit had gone to the medical wing, and Melissa read the report from the doctor. They gave him acetaminophen, and the report explained that he didn’t really have any lasting concerns. He was not diagnosed with any broken bones, or even a concussion. It was likely that the attitude he took with her was, in fact, he actual attitude. He had been a great disappointment, and the feelings he expressed about Berkman and Tucker the night before made him a wildcard.

Hilda reported that Kit clearly took things very personally, and he likely had gone on a power-trip with this new task. There was a high probability that he would go about the retrieval with a brutal nature, and the chances of retrieving Mr. Berkman and Mr .Tucker alive (and for a proper interrogation) was slim. Also playing against Kit Marshall was the concern Melissa Thompson had that Kit couldn’t conduct an interrogation. He would likely end up killing the pair before they got any information. While Melissa Thompson didn’t know if the pair would even have much information for the pair, she would certainly need to know if any information had been given to others, or copied.

The chances of Hawtholders continuing to employ Kit Marshall were slim. He was a risk, with his erratic behavior, and his inability to work with others. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to pair him up with anyone else, especially not a stranger who would struggle to control him. The problem with putting a more brutal person alongside him was that Kit might just grow worse, and one person sent to bring in Mr. Berkman and Mr. Tucker needed to maintain their composure and wits.

On another screen, Hilda was continuing to give Melissa Thompson updates about where Berkman might have gone. Based on what was missing at the storage unit, and the video footage there, she had figured out what Mr. Tucker had taken with him. He had weapons that he could sell off, and he had gotten a fistful of cash. His card had been abandoned, and she could tell that he had committed fully to whatever Berkman’s plan was. After all, he had given away his credit card. While many who ran from the police kept their personal cards and things because they hoped to get back to their lives eventually, Mr. Tucker had literally given away his entire savings. He could have simply thrown the card in the trash, shredded it, or kept it on his person if he planned to return to his life. Perhaps he was worried that he would make the same mistake as Berkman, and use his card somewhere, leading them right to him. Still, that didn’t mean he had to let people use it until it declined at a gas station.

No, giving away his card was giving away his lease on life. He knew that what he was doing was a death sentence. There was no returning to his life when he had no money, which perhaps made him a bit wiser than Melissa had realized before. There were two distinct possibilities that occurred to her as her treadmill regime ended and she slowed the pace to a walk. One, Tucker had a reason to believe that death was the only conclusion, perhaps because he knew that running wasn’t going to last long. This possibility led to the ending that he was on a suicide run, and somehow felt compelled to sell out Hawtholders before he died. The second possibility that was under serious consideration was that Tucker was running from his identity. He was abandoning the card because he was going to run from ‘Dave Tucker’, and was planning on becoming someone else.

Going to her pull up bar in the hallway, Melissa Thompson jumped up and began to do pull-ups. “Hilda.” She brought up the AI on one of the screens, glancing over at it in between pull-ups. “Do a search on any reports with Hawtholders on police reports.” She requested. If Tucker and Bransen were trying to take down Hawtholders, then they would have to go to the police. That was their only option, and they had many contacts with the police. Hawtholders had contracts with the police departments of the largest cities in the United States. They supplied nonlethal riot control supplies for different situations, along with more lethal options. They were even working on prototypes of hanguns that could carry multiple types of ammunition at the same time. There would be two or three cartridges in the gun, and options, like the safety, to switch between the different cartridges. It was going very well, an and the trials thus far were showing that the most difficult aspect to execute tended to be user safety—making sure that it was easy for the officer to tell which option the gun was set to. They had also developed an automatic safety option, which put the weapon back to Safe mode when it was holstered again. With all of the work that Hawtholders was doing with police departments, they had people everywhere.

Tucker and Berkman’s faces were already all over the television, but Tucker had learned from Berkman’s mistakes, and they hadn’t gotten any leads in the time that the two men had been missing. She knew she was missing something, she just wondered if Kit Marshall could possibly be the man to figure out just what it was. Melissa switched from pull-ups with her arms to hooking her legs over the bar and working her abs as she pulled her body up. She listened to the reports, or lack thereof, as she continued the repetitions. At 9:30 am, she took a shower, and then downed a protein shake before re-composing herself. By 10:30, she was back in the office in a meeting, and at 11:45, she was back in the room where Kit would be returning.

At noon, the door opened and Melissa Thompson watched as Kit walked in once more. He looked much more composed, which was good, because he had drugs and time on his side. “Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall. I hope that you have rested well, and had time to see a doctor as well.” She said, not bothering to say that she was sure he had done such, since she had already read up on his meeting with the doctor. As it was, she had no reason to continue to invest in Mr. Marshall. He was a sore loser, had a bad attitude, and was cocky. None of these qualities were valued by Ms. Thompson, and she didn’t see how he would be of use as they continued to search for the now two traitors. “Do you have any new information that we need to take under consideration moving forward?” She asked, keeping her tone neutral, and the focus on Kit. It was his responsibility to prove his value, not her responsibility to find a use for him.

Fresh from the grip of his sleepy interlude, the suit was gruff, to say the least, as he was woken to the careful touch of Bransen's slim hand nudging his thigh. Dave was sluggish in the way he stirred, shifting reluctantly from the uncomfortable cradle of the Jeep's passenger-side seat, and he was drowsy in the manner with which he lifted his blond head upright from where it had slumped back. Dave's voice had gone faintly hoarse from disuse, too, Bran observed, withdrawing his timid hand the moment the suit's muted-green eyes pried open, blinking blearily into their surroundings, coming to full awareness.

Even after the hefty siesta, the guy still seemed so very weary and drained, Bran thought—more so than one should really be after such a restful nap. He sounded a little grumpy too, which was something the engineer decided he didn't have the strength to bother with being too piqued by. After all, Bran himself had been somewhat crotchety earlier that very morning, having been so rudely jarred from the tender embrace of his own bout of productive slumber by Dave's very hand (or his elbow, or whatever it'd been), so it wasn't like he had any room to chastise the guy over a knee-jerk response to being roused. If anything, it was kind of endearing to see his counterpart in such an uncommonly state of ornery grogginess. Made him seem—if only for a second—more human, Bran thought, chancing a stealthy glance over the winsome line of Dave's jaw once the suit's attention had diverted to the dusky sky outside.

Uh, wait, “winsome”? Bran's mind queried back a bit belatedly, and the engineer's incongruous thoughts dithered awkwardly to the echo of his own internal monologue. Did he really just think that of Dave right before stealing a wayward look of latent longing in the suit's direction? (Why, yes. Yes, he did.) That's a pretty questionable choice of words for a captive on the topic of his captor, don't you think? And, ah, well... yeah, there was no arguing that. It had been rather questionable, indeed, especially when coupled by the bizarre act of actually stealing a look to the guy because—really—with the exception of swoon-y damsels in tacky romance novels, who even legitimately did that? It had been a very peculiar thing to think of the man, quite honestly, even though Dave wasn't so much Bran's captor anymore as he was his conspirator. (Bran insisted he was not arguing with himself by making that fact known, too.) He swallowed upon feeling an unwelcome surge of nervousness oversweep him, forcing his eyes to remain in possession of the road, and he clutched at the steering wheel probably a bit tighter than he needed while he listened to Dave's instruction.

“We want to keep on the I-80—” the suit confirmed with a brief break to yawn, and he continued by informing Bransen they'd be eastbound up until the point they reached the New Jersey Turnpike near Manhattan. Good god, that's still quite a ways out. Bran inwardly bemoaned, made a small face of discontentment. He contemplated how much longer he could tolerate sitting upright in the uncomfortable driver's seat before eventually giving in to urge to bitch at Dave about how overtaxed his aching foot was beginning to feel. Though, that wouldn't be fair to his dear cohort, unfortunately—and Bran forced himself to acknowledge the truth in that thought. It wasn't like Dave had twisted his arm and dictatorially coerced him into taking a shift behind the wheel or anything. Bran had wanted to help. He'd volunteered, completely of his own free will, to give the guy a much-needed break and he certainly wasn't about to regret the decision, even if his foot did feel like it was trembling from the exertion. For hell's sake, you're fine. Quit being such a pussy. A little strain never made a foot fall off—not that he'd heard, anyway—so Bran was fairly sure he'd survive for at least another hour or so. (Though, Dave might have to forgive him if Bransen required some help stretching the kinks out of his tired calves before bed—assuming Bran even had the nads to ask, that is.)

While the idea of crashing in another shoddy motel seemed less than ideal to him, when Bransen shifted slowly in his seat, straightening his spine to appraise the growing tightness in his lower back and legs, he officially determined that—yeah—he could use the break for the night, even if it happened to be on the battered mattress of a cheap fold-out. They both could use it, really, considering the significant stretch of distance they'd heretofore covered in their ground flight from Chicago, hundred and hundreds of miles from home—not that he'd been keeping track or anything. (Did Dave live in Chicago, too, like Bransen had? The engineer wondered. He pondered the odds of the suit being raised as a New York native, as well, but ultimately refrained from voicing the questions he was itching to ask.) Surely, by now, they'd put enough range between themselves and Hawtholders to relax again? Surely, for one more night, they'd be safe from the reach of Hawtholders' and their agents of extortion, keeping another night of their lives—right?

Almost as if reading his mind, Dave suggested in a steady tone, “Let’s find a place to crash for the night... I know it’s early, but we both need the sleep. Then, tomorrow, first thing, we can track down the right people and, hopefully, be out of the city again by nightfall.” Hopefully? Why, oh, why did that remark sound so off-the-cuff and uncertain? Did he have to sound so ambivalent about it? Bran didn't like that even for one moment, the variable inflection hidden in the undercurrent of Dave's tone. (Had it been intentional?) Hopefully, he heard again on repeat. Yes, hopefully, we don't walk ourselves into an early grave. Hopefully, we can rely on these unknown contacts. Hopefully, the suit's... associates—or whatever the fuck they were—haven't already been reached out to by Hawtholders, haven't already caught wind of the manhunt... haven't already been in contact with...

The clear line of thought vanished when Bransen's mind suddenly toyed with the concept of Dave double-crossing him in New York. Oh, god, no. Stop that, please. With another surge of powerful anxiety, the engineer, once more, refrained from looking over to the suit with an assessing gaze and he deliberately maintained his eyes to the road, silent and diligent. What if Hawtholders had already made contact within New York? What if they'd already made their offer to Dave's allies and, now, simply lay in wait for their fugitives to make an appearance? They were global, after all—likely had enough power and persuasion required to beat them to the punch. They might try to barter with Dave, tempt him with his very life in exchange for Bransen and the documents. They wouldn't stay true to their word, of course, but how desperately would Dave want to believe them? Bran still didn't have a very definitive grasp on the kind of resolve the suit had. What if he folded under the pressure, left Bran on his own and ran?

No, no—Fuck! He's one of the good guys, Bransen reminded himself, recognizing the very moment when steady fear began to lapse into delusional paranoia. His heart skipped like a ricochet bullet, beat just a little too hard, bumped just a little too fast. Calm down, calm down... (Just what were the mathematical odds, anyway?) It was at least one good reason to continue holding onto the Motorola phone in his back pocket, Bran figured, practicing a few calming breaths through his nose. No matter where they ended, it would serve as his one final call for help, something to record his last known words, one final ping in the signal of his pathetic existence... He supposed he took a bit of comfort in that. A bit.

Bran could swear he'd been over every potential form of betrayal a hundred times already, having wracked his brain with each conceivable way the suit could possibly waltz Bran and his overly-trusting self straight to his deathbed. And, every single time, the engineer had assured himself that one simple fact would remain ever true above all: that Dave needed him just as much as he needed Dave, that the suit couldn't afford to lose him any more than Bran could afford to venture on his own. He wasn't completely kidding himself by thinking that, now, was he?

“Does that work for you?” Dave prodded questioningly, and Bransen wanted to scoff, but he feared the sound would betray inner distress. You're the fucking criminal expert around here, aren't you? Not me. Much as he wanted, he couldn't smother the bitter nature of that thought even as it hit him by impulse. (Great, now he was being resentful.) Working his tongue against the dry roof of his mouth, Bran at last ventured a cursory look to the man beside him, to Dave—the broad-shouldered, dimwitted, goddamn heroic brute of Bran's time—and the engineer murmured a soft-spoken “of course” in reply, mild and agreeable. Attention back on the road, Bransen swiped a stray lock of hair from his brow, lashes blinking into the headlights that dimly reflected on his face from the rear view mirror. It was getting dark outside now.

“Whatever you think, Dave.”

---

Gradually, as the sky became dimmer and the stars became brighter, twinkling distantly between smoggy columns of smoke and cloud and glowing city lights, the long and rolling highways gracefully morphed into freeways and the traffic grew from rare, to minimal, to moderate, even despite the darkening hour. By the time they pulled off the interstate, all signs of sunlight had vanished and Bransen could no longer feel his ass, so he was more than eager to retire for the night.

He figured it didn't matter much where it was they pulled off for the evening since they weren't actually meeting up with any of Dave's compadres until sometime tomorrow, so, wordlessly, he took an early exit off the I-80 just prior to reaching the turnpike, as instructed, and they found themselves nestled within the dingy township of South Hackensack. They crossed the bridge of a nearby river, drove southbound on the outskirts of a small airport that Bran idly wondered whether would serve to their advantage in the near future or not. (More than likely not, considering Hawtholders would likely already have their systems scouring absolutely every airport in the country by now...) He parked their stolen Jeep in the emptiest lot of the most dismal-looking lodging his tired eyes could manage to find—and that was truly saying something. It's no Hilton, that's for damn sure, he thought promptly killing the engine, and that at least implied that Hawtholders might have a more difficult time sifting them out of the city clusterfuck. The window of the main office was lit by the frail wattage of one very droopy-looking lamp, dusty and vintage, and the doors to each room seemed weathered and soggy, curtains drawn, lights out, with the exception of a very small few.

The engineer no move to immediately exit the vehicle, peering over to Dave with a telling expression. “Well, if ever I'm in the market of needing a nice place to kill myself,” he muttered quietly, leaving the rest of his dry remark implied by the building's dilapidated exterior. This would certainly be the one...

“Of course” Bransen replied, “Whatever you think, Dave.”

The rest of Bransen’s concerns, paranoid thoughts, and fears were left unsaid, and Dave had his own concerns as they got closer to New York. He stayed awake for the next hour, keeping an eye on the signs, and making sure that the driver wasn’t going to pass out or anything. He suspected that something was bothering the man, but in their situation, he wasn’t exactly surprised by such. When they pulled up to a dirty-looking motel, Dave heard his companion mutter a rather depressing thoughts. Dave regarded him for a moment before exiting the car, before giving a small nod. “Perhaps.” He said, certainly looking too thoughtful regarding Bransen’s suggestion. Dave opened the door, and then turned back to Bransen, realizing that his words might not have come across with good intentions. “Not literally… just… you might have something there…” He trailed off as he got out. “I’ll take care of the room, if you want to grab our stuff.” He suggested.

As he mentioned to Bransen, he wasn’t literally considering killing himself, or encouraging Bransen to do the same. Instead, he was thinking about faking their deaths. It was difficult, but if it could throw off Hawtholders’ trail for a little while, it would buy them some time. An old friend came to mind, a girl named Cindy. A former goth chick, Cindy never really got over her fascination with the deal. As far as Dave knew, she still wore way too much black eye-liner, and destroyed her naturally blonde hair by dying it as black as my soul she used to say. She was always weird, but she had helped him out a few times, and she had a boss who purchased drugs from some of his associates. He never noticed when things seemed to be misplaced. Hell, Dave remembered Cindy telling him that she was sure her boss was doing some shit on the black market with some of the John Does that came in. It was a flickering thought, but one that Dave could certainly put some more time into. Unfortunately, it would mean that they needed to spend more time in New York. Perhaps he needed to run more details by Bransen—and that was if Cindy was still around/in this business/willing to help/in possession of decent John Doe’s to use.

Taking a bit of the trash out of the car with him, Dave made his way to the office. There wasn’t anyone in the office, naturally, and Dave thought about just going through the office until he found keys to a room, but the last thing he wanted was the cops pounding down the door first thing in the morning and arresting them because they had stolen a room. He hit the stupid bell a few times until a man stumbled out of one of the back rooms. As the door opened, “Africa” by Toto was heard, slowly drowning until it was muffled when the door shut. He reeked of marijuana, was eating a churro, and his eyes were extremely bloodshot. “I need a room for the night.” Dave said.

“Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus under the Serengeti, my brutha.” He said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Okay…” Dave said slowly, wishing momentarily that they had just parked and slept in the car somewhere. He did not have the patience to deal with this shit. “Do you have any with two beds?” He asked.

“Mhmmm…. If you like the company of rats.” He said, still grinning.

“Do you…have any rooms that don’t have rats?” Dave said, his fingers closing around the counter until his knuckles began to turn white.

“Yeaaaaaa….. MAN!” He said, and Dave began to realize that this guy had no idea what the hell he was even asking.

“How much is a room?” Dave asked, changing the subject.

“How much…how much difference in the world can one person’s life make?” He asked, his eyes widening. He turned his head a bit, in awe, and noticed the churro in his hand. He slowly took another bite, and turned towards his guest as the man spoke again.

“That is a good question. So I pose this—How much difference in the world is the cost of one more room going to make?” He asked, feeding into this man’s obviously drug-induced state. “I mean…it isn’t like the money disappears. It’s still there. It just goes from me to you to the drawer… It doesn’t make any difference at all, really.” As Dave spoke, the man behind the counter began to nod, completely agreeing with the bullshit that Dave was spouting. Dave continued, going on about the dollar was just a symbol, a picture, and any picture, worth a thousand words, could have more value than that unchanging dollar. “How about this? I will draw you a picture—something unique and separate from the monotony and bullshit of pennies and dimes, and then you can just give me the key.” He said. “Then I can give it back tomorrow, and there will be balance.” He suggested. It was difficult for Dave to act so laid-back regarding things, but he knew how to speak to someone on drugs, and he knew how to use them to get what he wanted. A minute later, Dave exited the office, room key in hand. He had no idea if it was a two-bedroom with rats, a one-bedroom, or what, and he didn’t much care. The churro-eating night clerk went back to the room playing Toto, cradling his doodle of a dinosaur like it was worth a million dollars.

Dave caught up with Bransen, and made his way to the room. Fortunately, the key had been labeled. “I have good news and bad news.” He said as he put the key in the door. “The bad news is that this room might have rats… The good news is that it was free.” He said, grinning as he opened the door to the motel room.

It actually…wasn’t nearly as bad as Dave had been expecting. He didn’t see any rodents scurrying away, or poop on the floor. Some parts of the room had a bit of dust on them, but it wasn’t disgusting by any means. “You know,” Dave said, turning on the lights as he walked in. “I think we should invest in some sleeping bags.” He said lightly. Dave had roughed it quite a few times, but since they were consistently staying in shitty dives, it might be nice to have a somewhat clean area in which they could sleep and feel like not everything was dirty and disgusting. Dave used the restroom, just washing up briefly before he sat on the edge of the bed, checking his own bandage. It wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t going to let it breathe for the night here. “How’s your foot?” He asked after putting a clean bandage on his own wound.