SlummyChap

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

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...

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

“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?”

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

“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.

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

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.

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

“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.”

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

I believe this was the original?



Mmph, what a stud.

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

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?”

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

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.

[High-Casual/Advanced] Something Like Conspiracy (SlummyChap & Pascal)

Name: Bransen Berkman. Also goes by Bran.

Age: 24.

Gender: Male.

Hair: Dark brown and medium in length. He hardly finds the time to run a comb through it, mostly arranging it with his hands.

Eyes: Hazel.

Physique: Fair-skinned, average height, and a slender build. A career spent at the seats of computer desks and workbench tables leaves Bran with little opportunity to exercise his body.

Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: None.

Personality: (Leo-Based) Bransen is a well-spoken and ambitious individual that enjoys pursuing his goals and surpassing his own expectations. He is confident, creative, and honest. He dislikes deception, hostility, and criticism. Bransen is attracted to good presentation, boldness, and greatly adores approval from his peers and colleagues. Sometimes, Bran's desire to achieve his objectives can leave him relentlessly single-minded and he's been known to hurt those he cares for in his tenacious endeavors. His passion can translate into conceit, naivety, and bossiness sometimes. He's quick to trust until his confidence has been broken and, though he may be forgiving, Bransen's also unlikely to make the same mistake twice, making it difficult to regain broken trust.

Family: With a father that walked out when he was young and no siblings to grow up with, Bransen struggled to maintain a close relationship with his mother as her alcoholic compulsions created an unstable environment at home. Since moving out, their relationship has grown distant and strained at best. He doesn't spare much thought for his mother unless she calls for something and, even then, it's become increasingly difficult for Bransen to sympathize with her anymore.

Significant Other: None. While he's certainly no virginal stripling, Bransen's never really bothered himself with relationships, finding them a hassle, tumultuous, and even exhausting. His perspective of women is perhaps a bit unjustly skewed if only because of the role his mother played growing up. Lately, he's been more focused on his work than his intimacies so finding the time to date someone has been low on his priorities.

Education: Having graduated recently, Bransen obtained his degree after four painstaking years of full-time study. Thankfully, his academic achievements in computer science and software engineering pay off when they land him in a well-paying full-time position shortly after graduation.

Career: Bransen is an Engineering Technician that designs and develops militaristic technology across an assortment of categories, specifically weapons/munitions and software/communication systems. He builds products and programmes, solves technical problems, collects data, and calculates results. He's not the most social when he's working so he finds it difficult to bond with his colleagues on anything more than a professional level.



Name: Christopher Kit Marshall.

Age: 26.

Gender: Male.

Hair: Reddish-brown and medium length.

Eyes: Green/hazel.

Physique: Freckled skin, average height, and an average build.

Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: None.

Personality: Kit is an intelligent individual eager to prove his worth to his employers. He is energetic, diligent, resourceful, and fastidious in nearly everything he does. Kit's weaknesses are that he can be very critical and arrogant of those around him, especially when he feels passionate of his own ideas. He's been known to manipulate and deceive in order to achieve his goals. His domineering personality can sometimes be exhausting for his colleagues, but it makes him a good leader. Because Kit enjoys being recognized and rewarded for his hard work, he prefers getting things done the first time around and will charm his way through any problems that he encounters.

Family: This information will develop as the story needs it.

Significant Other: This information will develop as the story needs it.

Education: This information will develop as the story needs it.

Career: Though they don't work side-by-side with one another, Kit's position is similar to Bransen's in many ways, although Kit is much more hands-on than his younger colleague. Kit is a Technical Specialist that aides in the development of products. He runs inspections and evaluations, passing completed products through trials and assessments before either authorizing/denying them for clearance. Quality control, if you will. His current position gives him a pleasing sense of authority, although lately he's been itching for something better...

[High-Casual/Advanced] The Brother Islands (SlummyChap & El Taco Taco)

In the subsequent days following Hutch's enthusiastic proposition, Reece did precisely as he said he would and a vacation request had been promptly approved by the end of the week. It took them another two days to gather the gear and materials required for such an excursion, as the equipment they currently owned was not nearly substantial enough (not according to Hutch's meticulous checklist, anyway), and then a fourth to transport it all down to Milo's dingy condominium within the central cluster of Kankakee County. Traveling back and fourth between their home and Milo's condo in Hutch's ailing '89 Impreza had greatly tested Reece's level of patience, Hutch could tell, and it didn't help in the least that Milo lived almost two counties due south with damn near an hour's worth of drive time each direction. The exasperation became even more apparent when Milo had so fervently taken to helping with the gear as scarcely as possible upon its delivery, leaving Reece and Hutch to the heavy lifting and lugging required to separated provisioning and double-check equipment. Somehow though, by some blessing, his dear friend, Reece, managed to keep his broiling thoughts to himself the entire way through, enduring the initial irritants much more graciously than Hutch could have ever hoped.

Honestly, he'd been anticipating a bit of tension between Milo and Reece, if only because the respective lifestyles they each led so vastly differed from one another, but Reece seemed to keep himself impressively composed around their long-lost companion, even if he truly felt an enraged wreck on the inside. In any case, Hutch was grateful for the effort and he'd always be happy to let Reece vent some time later in private—assuming it became necessary. He was confident his mate already knew as much.

Upon the day of their formal reunion, just one night to go until their scheduled departure, Milo offered the pair to crash in the clutter of his living room space, which they reluctantly accepted, and, by the end of a long afternoon, they found themselves exhausted of packing, collapsed on the sofa. The case of beer Milo had brandished in treat proved to be far too enticing for both Hutch as well as Reece to decline and, in spite of bodily weariness, they all three spent an even longer night catching up on lost time, learning to laugh like schoolboys once again while the alcohol loosened their adult-like predispositions.

Say what you will, but there was a reason they'd spent so many years latched to one another, even despite geographic inconveniences. Life caught up with everybody, Hutch solemnly reminded himself as he climbed wearily beneath the quilt on the sofa, and he hoped that maybe Reece would feel the same come the end of it all. Reece and Milo may have had their inarguable differences every now and again, sure, but, knocking back all the fluff and bullshit, their friendship always seemed to prevail. Good friends and many laughs, Hutch found himself thinking fondly through the haze of his buzz, rolling heavily onto his side to see Reece situating himself on the floor within his sleep mat. He'd meant to make a point of asking Reece if he truly enjoyed his night before drifting off—really, he did—but the pull of booze ultimately proved to be too much for Hutch and it conclusively coaxed him into a hard and fast sleep, as it customarily did.

The following morning, they all rose late, somehow failing to set a godforsaken alarm on—not one, not two, but—three separate counts. It's okay, it's okay. It's just a few hours, nothing detrimental. The island's not going anywhere, Hutch reassured himself, checking his wristwatch impatiently for probably the hundredth time—Almost 11 a.m.—as Milo unrepentantly wedged the final sleeping mat into the trunk, giving Hutch's poor car a rattling jar when he slammed the lid shut. They had an eleven-hour drive ahead of them, which put them into Manhattan well into the night after the time zone change. Thankfully, they didn't plan to break waters until the following afternoon though. So, relax, Hutch's brain soothed.

With his hangover still pounding in his skull, synched perfectly to beat of his pulse, Hutch squinted his eyes as he skimmed over their list of essentials one closing time. Tents, windbreakers, torch lights. Canteens, toiletries, sustenance. Cameras, lenses, lights, filters... Respirators, first aid, gloves... What else? What else? What else might they be forgetting? With the northern island retreat being so vast and expansive, it required them to stay a night or two on the deserted property if Hutch was to gather any meaningful stockpile of photographs to work with (and, yes, he was hell-bent on collecting as many as possible for this miserable spread—that went without say). During his research, Hutch had learned that neither the National Park Service nor the Wildlife Refuge bothered to frequent the densely-forested sanctuary much further past their annual fowl computations. So, as such, he and his helpers would need to be prepared for the very worst. They'd quite literally be on their own the moment they anchored to the shore of North Brother, exposed to the elements and left to their own devices.

Hutch finally looked up from his list to the weathered Impreza, puzzlement and uncertainty in his eyes as he wracked his brain for other trivial necessities. Standing in driveway beside him, Milo watched Hutch scratch a mindful tick-mark beside each item. “Man, come on!” Milo finally exhausted himself testily, slouching his weight against the open door to the vehicle, “You've gone over that thing six times, H. I'm pretty sure we got everything but the kitchen sink in here and—I'm sorry—but that's just not gonna fit, so we'll have to make do without. I could hardly get my fuckin' case in there.”

Hutch sighed a long-suffering sound and rubbed his brow, swiping the thin film of perspiration that had accumulated beneath his dark frock of hair. Tucking his pencil behind an ear, Hutch at last folded his checklist into a small square, figuring this would likely be as good as it got for now. It's not like they couldn't always purchase any forgotten items from the city before they cast off anyway, he reminded himself, glancing over his shoulder towards the open door to the condo. Hutch ceded after a pregnant pause, straining to acquiesce with a convincing tone of indifference, “Fine,” he said, “Get in the back. I'll drive first.” In return, Milo sighed with melodramatic relief before tossing his house key to Hutch and hollering, “Thank you! Now, go grab 'im, lock up, and let's get this show on the road!”

Turning wordlessly on heel, Hutch tucked the paper into the back pocket of his jeans before scampering into the house one last time to gather Reece. He rapped his knuckles on the entryway frame to the living room when he spotted his friend and huffed, “You ready, mate? I think we've got the last of it. Time to shove off.”