Chapter Two: Fire

[Simon Toews]

(Warning: Story will contain violence, adult language, etc. It is also undergoing significant additions with Tahlia's player to better flow as a narrative. Will post they are completed!)

Tahlia Faras slipped out from under the unconscious arm, running her fingers through the wealth of fiery red hair that was currently a sweaty tangle from earlier. The bottle of top-shelf bourbon next to the bed was empty - figures. Looking back at her still snoring companion, she smirked, and started collecting her clothes. He’d been fun - not too muscle-bound, but fit, and a decent amount of endurance. Plus, he’d paid for the room, the bottles...pretty sure there had been a pizza or something too. But he wasn’t good enough to get her number, or for her to stick around. Shrugging, she shimmied into a very expensive set of lace panties that had ended up hanging from a lampshade, finding the matching bra flung over a chair back. It wasn’t often she found someone worth keeping around, unless they had something she wanted that wasn’t between their legs. Her dress, a Dolce & Gabbana number in aqua that didn’t cover nearly enough for the weather, lay crumpled at the end of the bed next to a pair of matching Jimmy Choo’s. She tugged the dress up over sunkissed skin, stepping into the heels at the same time. Better all around for her to be out of there before something other than neon lit the sky.

“Whereya goin, hot stuff…?” Something had woken him, who knew what. It didn’t really matter. She was ready to go. Rolling her eyes, she turned back to him with a soothing coo. “Hey, handsome...tonight was fun, but...I got places to be, y’know?” Hopefully that would be enough, and he’d settle back to sleep. Turning back, she looked around for her clutch - her car was back at whatever casino she’d found him at - the Bellagio? Yeah...that was it. And she figured asking him for cab fare was a step too far - not that she needed it, assuming she couldn’t charm the cabbie into giving her a free ride. She’d never understood the point of paying for things when you didn’t have to. Neon set the golden material aglow, and she took a step to reclaim her bag.

They’d nearly killed the bottle, and she might just have drunk more than he had. Had to have, for her not to notice him come up behind her until he grabbed her arm, leering. Didn’t have to be psychic to read that look. “Nuhuh - you’re comin back to bed...I’m not done with you.”

“Sweetie, really...I gotta go. Like I said, fun night but…” she let out a short laugh. “I got a guy waiting for me...he worries if I’m not home by morning.” Not entirely true - technically there were two of them, plus her sister, and while a day or two wouldn’t cause panic, all hell would break loose if she came to harm. She tugged her arm free, with a little more effort than strictly necessary. It was time to go.

“You got a what? You a pro or something?” Mr. Slow-on-the-Uptake huffed up, fists balling at his sides. She couldn’t remember his name, and didn’t care. It took some guys this way when she blew them off - their little ego’s not up to facing that any woman wouldn’t fawn all over themselves to bed them.

The chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh and a toss of her head, sending silken strands floating and coiling against her shoulders. “You couldn’t afford me if I was...just looking for a little fun. And that’s exactly what you were.” It was a failing of hers, that brazen attitude, the brattiness that made her the darling of her family, but often got her in trouble with others. Turning on her heel, she made for the door - or intended to.

Strong fingers jerked her back, knuckles thudding against her cheekbone and sending her head snapping to the side. Dazed for a moment, she tasted blood, and glared. The bastard had backhanded her. Shame for him he’d nicked himself shaving that morning. “Bleed…”

It started as a trickle, then a stream, the force of the crimson liquid tugging the cut wider bit by bit. A cold, pleased smile curved her lips as he let go of her arm, eyes wide with confusion. A single word, and his own blood had turned against him, sluicing its way out of his body to obey her whim. Gurgling, he collapsed at her feet, fingers scrabbling at her shoes even as his life blood pooled around him and the light died in his eyes.

Tahlia shivered, a whispered moan escaping her lips - it had been too long. Jade green eyes fell on the pants strewn over a chair, and she smirked. Stepping through the spreading blood, she reached for his wallet, and then thought better of it. She hardly needed to rob the dead, and it was past time for her to be on her way. Stepping back the way she’d come, she spared one last glance for the naked corpse, and headed out into the night. It might be a good idea to get away for a few days...this place was starting to bore her.

(Credit goes to Tahlia for this entry. Posted with her permission)

[John Calloway]

Gregory “Smitty” Smith was dead. No, not dead. Murdered. The scene of the crime was like something out of a slasher flick. The coppery smell of blood, the dark red stains of drying blood splashed everywhere...and of course, the drained, hollow looking body of officer Greg “Smitty” Smith. Federal Agents John Calloway and Valerie Francesca stood in the midst of gore that was the man’s remains, scanning the scene.

Crime scene tape marked the door, and the local PD boys had already had to dash down the hallway upon arrival. Calloway, tall, broad, classically handsome with dark brown hair and steely blue eyes, looked down on the body of his former partner and friend, and shook his head. “Damn it, Smitty, what the hell did you get yourself into?” he muttered to himself,, chewing lightly on the inside of his cheek.

“More like who…” his partner commented from the bedstand. Slim, well put-together in a dark grey pantsuit, her brown eyes turned up to him. She held a tumbler stained with lipstick between her latex-gloved fingers. “Unless this is Smitty’s shade of pink?” She asked.

Calloway grimaced at the implication. Greg Smith had had his faults - a weakness for fast, dangerous women was the least of them. They’d known each other since their days at the academy. Back then, though he had a penchant for hitting the bottle, the man was a good cop. Their years in Vice had lead the man to harder substance abuse. Cocaine, pills, a brief stint with heroin. It had ruined two of the man’s marriages, and he became a bit of a joke in the dept, for screwing prostitutes instead of arresting them. It had been a long road, but Calloway figured his friend had straightened himself out finally.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Valerie read the look on her partner’s face. Realizing maybe the joke was ill-timed “John...you sure you want to be here?” She asked him, bagging the evidence.

Calloway took in a deep breath, steeling himself. “Yeah...” Nothing about this sat right to him. Despite his demons, Smitty was a capable police officer, and sure as hell was no weakling. How a some woman had gotten one over on him...sprayed his blood all over the room...drained him to a husk, was beyond him. No, he would bet his life that whatever had killed Greg Smith was no normal woman. It was practically inhuman. Though, what that implied...was impossible.

He cleared his throat and turned to Valerie. “Bag the glasses, the bottles...check the bedding for hair...and have someone get shots of the shoe prints.” It wasn’t much, but it was something. “Talk to the front desk, get ahold of the security camera footage. And ask for Doc Lerner down at the M.E’s office…”

Valerie nodded her head, stepping out into the hall. “Deputy?” She called out, leaving Calloway alone.

Those sharp, blue eyes stayed on his friend’s blood-stained corpse, his jaw clenching in time with his fist. He was going to bury whoever did this - you could bet on that. Somehow, they were going to burn.

[John Calloway]

“This is all we’ve got?” Valerie stared down at the table, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, a strand of chestnut brown hair tucked behind her ear. Arranged on the metal surface before her were two tumblers, a single shoe impression, and a few still shots from a surveillance tape. A ridiculously well-proportioned redhead was seen hanging all over the troubled man.

The portly local PD Chief Walton Smithers stood there at the back of the room, beefy arms crossed over his chest, the buttons on his uniform struggling big time. “Aside from the blood literally everywhere? Yeah, that’d do it. Poor son of a bitch was drained.”

Calloway had his hand on his hips studying the image of the woman. His suit jacket had been removed in response to the punishing desert heat, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms. All of the blood in the room was his former partners - the shoe print - the vague impression of lipstick on one of the tumblers, those were the only pieces they had to tie the woman in the pictures to Smitty’s room. His card had been charged for the room, the drinks, and a pizza. It wasn’t enough. Not to find one woman - and they’d have to find her to connect her to the room, and damned if facial recognition could pick up a tag on her. Even then, the local PD’s chief wasn’t convinced she hadn’t just...been there. After all, the mystery woman was a full foot shorter, half his size, and Smitty had been an experienced officer. About all he’d agree to is that she was a ‘material witness’.

Valerie eyed him. John Calloway wasn’t an easy read, but she knew the man. He might have seemed calm and collected, but there was a fire burning beneath that furrowed brow. John turned to her. “I want a lockdown on this. Get as many of the local uniforms out here, I want boots on the ground, I want ID’s on everyone who was in the Bellagio when they were here, I want surveillance from every joint in the strip. Get people out there and see if anyone recognizes her. I want them up and down the Strip with that face if they have to.” He said looking from the picture to his partner and then to the Chief. “I want a net put on this one, you understand?”

The chief scoffed. “You have any idea the kinda manpower it takes-”

“You seem to be operating under the illusion that I asked for input.” Calloway said, staring with that poker face.

The doughy Chief bristled, screwing up his mouth. “We know she was there, but we’ve been asking and nobody seen a woman matching her description leaving the place.”

Calloway’s brows raised as he gawked. He pointed to the picture. “You trying to tell me nobody noticed a smoking hot redhead covered in blood wandering out of the hotel? Get your people out there, Chief. I don’t care if you have to talk to the Goddamn garbage man, a federal agent is dead. You leave no stone unturned, you hear me?”

John sighed, and ran a hair through his dark hair. “I’m gonna go see if Doc has anything.”

The ME’s office was conveniently down the hall - it made sense to have all the sciency stuff near each other. John’s shoes clip-clopped against the tile floor before he pushed through the door into the room a little harder and quicker than usual. Fortunately, the examiner was weighing the internal organs, so the start of surprise just meant the slippery bits hit the scale with a squelch.

The agent sent an apologetic smile at the lanky form of Doc Lerner.

“Got anything for me?” Calloway lapped the room before stopping a few feet from the table. The sight of his friend, emaciated, pale and cut open sent his stomach spiralling. Even with everything he’d seen in his time, nothing prepared you for the body of a friend on the slab. The cause of death, officially, was exsanguination, even though medical science couldn’t explain how he’d so thoroughly bled out through the only cut they’d found.

“You were right. It doesn’t make sense. It…” Doc Lerner pinched his nose, letting out an exhausted breath and shook his head. He knew John Calloway better than to give him sympathy before he was ready for it. Business first. “Nothing natural did this. And Agent Smith didn’t have any medical issues that would have caused him to bleed out that fast - even if he did, there’s nothing according to medical science, that I know, even remotely like it. He didn’t even have a chance to clot. I haven’t had time to research it, but I will. ”

Calloway shook his head, staring at the sunken, ghastly face of his friend for a long moment. He hooked a thumb backwards. “Ruthers doesn’t think a little woman like that could possibly have gotten a jump on Smitty.” A bitter chuckle left the Agent. “I’m telling you, I don’t think he knew what he picked up that night.”

Lerner nodded ruefully. “I’m inclined to agree. He was naked, his gun on the other side of the room - I’m guessing he picked her up, had a little fun...and something went wrong.” Picking up a file, the doctor shifted his glasses higher, and held it out to him - along with a small zip drive. “The weird thing is…” the Doctor began creases forming at his brow. “There’s no evidence of a blade. At least not one I can explain - skin looks like it was torn from the inside. The only wound is a knick on his chin, presumably from shaving. Even someone with hemophilia shouldn’t have bled out as...forcefully...as Smitty seems to.”

“Forcefully?”

“Ever see ‘Old Faithful’?” The doctor responded, painting a gruesome picture in Calloway’s head.

“Fuck me. What the hell causes something like that?” Calloway asked, eyeing the doctor.

“I don’t know.” Lerner said with a shake of the head. “But whatever killed him - it’s dangerous.”

[Simon Toews]

2 Months Later
It had been eleven years. Eleven years since Cameron Cotter had killed Lyla. Eleven years since he took Cici. Burned her alive, and left Simon Toews a hollow shell of a man. Two years prior, he’d been released after serving a nine year sentence. Prison was a constant battle, sometimes sanctioned by the warden, sometimes just scraps in the yard. For every fight, Simon collected a new tattoo. After 9 years his arms were covered in ink. The blood and the battles gave him a sense of control he desperately needed, and a punishment he felt he deserved.

Since his release, he’d spent most nights in a drug or alcohol-induced haze. Finding solace either in cage fights or in the willing women of Rhy’din. It was better than being alone with his thoughts. As the fighting continued so did his collection of tattoos and scars. His knuckles had been broken so many times they had become misshapen and hardened like rocks. A right cross from him was devastating. The ink spread up to his shoulders and spilled out onto his chest and crept up his neck, but right over his heart, one remained very clear. “Cici”.

Despite former Detective Paige’s badgering, he took up residence in a dilapidated part of the industrial district, moving into an abandoned metal works and converting its offices into a rent free home, keeping off the grid. It was kind of a shithole, but, hey...it suited him fine, as far as he was concerned.

He wasn’t sure what brought him out that night. Maybe it was fate...maybe it was boredom. Hell, maybe he just needed a damn drink. Whatever the reason, he found himself at the Red Dragon Inn. It was a quiet night, a few of the usual suspects hanging about the place. Nothing too terribly interesting and little to no conversation. That was when *she* walked through the door. Strawberry blonde hair, jade green eyes and a body to die for. Even the way she moved told him she knew exactly how to use it. Even among her trio of attractive friends, the blonde stood out.

Simon upended a bottle of scotch, eyeing her from the side as they walked up, chit chatting. Like he’d experienced so many nights, it didn’t seem like a party he was invited to break up. Women like that always had a “nobody left behind” mentality, in his experience. So he kept his distance. Chuckling quietly at their jokes, and noting a pair of green eyes stealing glances his way. He caught her once, but she didn’t look away. And neither did he. He just decided to play it cool, sipping his drink while they went on and on about fighting and the arena.

He’d never been one for the official, sanctioned fights. The roaming pop-up cage-matches he took part in were less than legal and carried with them a higher probability of death in the ring. The risk was higher, the rush was greater. He didn’t need the prestige or ranking, he just needed the fight. To risk and win. To feel the rush of dominating someone in the ring, knowing full well that if he didn’t, his life could be forfeit.

The pair of them played coy all night, never finding an opening, flirting silently, the raw chemistry between them absolutely palpable. Finally, the night wound down, the girls were leaving, but Simon had just poured another glass of Lagavulin. Those ever-alert eyes saw her break off from the group as they were leaving. She slapped a napkin on the bartop. His eyes slowly turning up to her. The blonde smirked and turned back, rejoining her friends. Simon watched her...or rather her hips as she swayed on off with the others. With a breath, he glanced down at the napkin. There was a phone number and message. It said “Tahlia. Call me.”

[Simon Toews]

The roar of the crowd. The cool air hitting his flesh. The smell of sweat and blood in air. It fueled him. Simon watched as the loser of the last bout was dragged, unconscious from the outdoor ring. This fight set up in a makeshift arena on the docks, shipping containers stacked around the perimeter. He stood in his corner, looking fresh-faced and ready, one hand reaching up to his head, stretching his neck to one side.

His knuckles clenched, letting out little pops, those sharp blue eyes tracking his opponent. Slim, tall, with long, sinewy arms. Body packed with toned muscle. He looked fast, hungry, alert. Simon walked out, his tightly wrapped fists bumping against his opponents. Before the bell could even ring, he turned his back and walked toward the other end of the ring.

The skinny fighter watched him walking away, for a moment confusion settled into his face, but it gave in to anger. This guy was disrespecting him! Well, he’d be regretting that in a second. The man charged at Simon ready to attack him from behind. Simon’s stride turned into a run, he leapt up, foot connecting with the metal side of a shipping container, launching himself into a mid-air roundhouse that connected with the charging fighter’s face.

Down he went, faceplanting, blood splattering on the cardboard mat that served as the fighting surface. Simon landed on his feet, whipping around and moving to bring his heel down onto the back of the man’s head. But the fighter was indeed quick. He rolled quickly out of the way and scrambled up to all fours.

Just as Simon turned to face him, the skinny man pounced. He slammed, full bodied into Simon, knocking him off his feet and bouncing onto his back. Even as he hit the ground, Simon grabbed him by the long hair, pulling his head back as those hammer-like knuckles of his pounded his opponent’s face mercilessly. His legs wrapped around Skinny’s waist squeezing as tightly as possible until the thin man felt like his ribs my break under the strain.

Blood rained down on Simon’s face with every hard, packing sound of fist on face. Finally a vicious right cross had his opponent rolling to one side. Simon moved to the other side and got to his feet, giving the bloody fighter a chance.

Skinny pushed up off the ground and spat a big, stringy wad of blood out onto the cardboard mat. Simon’s scarred, tattooed chest rose and fell, slick with sweat and blood. The thin man snarled and got to his feet, quickly. His fists went up as he approached Simon.

A cocky little smirk crossed the tattooed combatant’s lips as Skinny threw punch that was easily dodged. Laughter escaped him on the next dodge, drawing out the rage in his opponent. Skinny was throwing unaimed punches at his face missing by a mile as Simon danced around them, making him madder and madder. As the next dodge went, Skinny threw a close fisted backhand, catching Simon across the jaw.

Apparently, Icarus flew a little too close to the sun there. Skinny grabbed the mildly dazed Simon by the head and brought his knee into his face, sending the tatted fighter stumbling back. Simon blocked and dodged a flurry of kicks, the last caught in the crook of his left elbow, his right dropping down hard, hyper extending that knee.

Skinny managed to stay standing and fighting through the pain as they squared off again. Simon lashed out with a vicious right...that missed. Skinny caught his arm and went around him, throwing Simon, face-first into one of the shipping crates. He felt the metal cut into his brow, hot crimson running down his face as fingers wrapped in his short.

Lights flashed with a burst of pain as his head was smashed into the metal again and again and again, his knees growing weaker with every impact. His head snapped back, pulled away again, but as he was thrust back at the container, he caught himself with his fists, halting that momentum.

Simon’s elbow shot back connecting with Skinny’s nose, shattering it with burst of blood His elbow was thrown back again, another shot hitting the exact same spot, Skinny’s grip loosening. Simon spun to face him again, a quick head-butt connecting with his opponent’s face, sending the slim man stumbling and flailing into the cargo container on the other side of the ring.

His vision was clouded with red on one side, but Simon watched as a lead pipe was dropped into the ring for the skinny man. So THAT was how it was going to be, he thought. He grit his teeth and spat blood on the floor, readying himself.

Skinny grabbed that pipe and hobbled over toward him, Simon keeping his side facing the battered man. The pipe sang through air, swiped at him, but Simon leaned out of the way, backing away. Let him tucker himself out more.

He kept Skinny moving and swinging, until his body was clearly just ragged with exhaustion until, finally, Simon caught that pipe, ripped it from his grasp and with both hands on either end slammed to the middle of the object into Skinny’s teeth.

Simon felt those teeth crack underneath the lead pipe, choked his grip down, wound up and with one swift, hard swing, whacked him across the temple.

Skinny fell to the ground in a heap, the bell ringing to the sound of a screaming crowd. The barker came out shouting about Simon’s victory, but with the adrenaline flowing and blood pounding in his ears Simon barely heard it.

[Simon Toews]

Another fight. Another win. He was battered and bruised, but victorious and the man needed a celebration. Tahlia's phone would blow up with a fresh new text message from a strange number. "Hey this is Simon. guy from bar lst night. makin sure this is the right #." the screen read. He wasn't entirely certain that she hadn't just given him a random number and he wasn't texting some old lady knitting a sweater somewhere.

She'd just stepped out of the shower, and thumbed the phone open with a smirk. "I was hoping I'd hear from you - Definitely the right number. You busy? Or did you want to pick up where we left off?" Seeing as that had been maybe two words and a shot, plus a whole lot of overheard innuendo, before she'd slipped him her number, that left a whole lot of possibilities.

"LOL not talking 2 eachother n drinkin'?" he responded. "nah lets try drinks n shootin' the breeze"

"unless you can think of something more fun 2 do" came his next

He smirked, pocketing that phone, his memory doing it's level best to picture her again. The strawberry blonde locks...that curvaceous yet slender body... And the eyes. Fuck yes, the eyes. Now he remembered. He walked down the street sporting stitches and a fresh knot at his forehead, bruises dotting the landscape of his tatted,toned body, and fresh scabs and gashes on his knuckles. The grey t-shirt he wore clung this athletic form in the best way.

His 6 foot form darkened the doorway of that hotel bar, blue eyes, one of them a little bloodshot from his fight scanned the area. The sleeve of that shirt strained against a tattooed bicep as he searched. Finally, he spotted her. She got to the hotel first, and was sitting at the bar, nursing a scotch old enough to drink itself. Strawberry blonde waves spilled across bare shoulders - the temperature had spiked nicely, and she'd taken full advantage. A tight t-shirt that dipped low enough to show off a decent amount of sun-kissed skin, in a green that set off her pale jade eyes - and a skirt barely long enough to be legal in public - black, to match the stiletto heels. Not too fancy, but not too complicated. She didn't plan to be wearing it long. Simon’s lips parted slightly at the sight of her and what she was wearing.

Some sixth sense had her turning at just the right moment, and she fluttered her fingers in his direction, paired with a nearly unconscious wetting of plush, pink lips. If anything, he was even more appealing than he'd been the other night. Something about dangerous men...she liked them rough, and cocky, and there was a spark in those blue eyes that said he was that and more.

He sidled up beside her, leaning up against the bar, the damage to his face and hands now clear. A little smirk tugged at one side of Simon's mouth as he looked her over. "Well. 'spose I oughta actually introduce myself, huh?" he said with a quirked brow that sent a tingle of pain through him.

"Suppose you should..." She turned to face him, back hollowing just enough to make every breath a distraction.

He lifted his head up to her in a nod. "Simon Toews." He said to her, an unabashed roaming of his eyes over her before they shifted back up to those jade hues.

She smiled, checking him out no less thoroughly than he was her. "Tahlia..." Just Tahlia, she didn't make a habit of last names, though she had one. She handed him the glass, her other hand lifting to hover over the cut eye, and then whisper along his jaw. Her eyes ticked over the injuries, one brow quirking just a little. "Did I interrupt something? You look a little...rough..."

"Yeah, just finished beating a man unconscious. I got paid, and felt like maybe a celebratory drink might be in order." He smirked. "And you know what they say...drinkin' alone is the first step to alcoholism." He nodded very sincerely.

She let out a chime of laughter, her own eyes sparkled with amusement, and something else - clear attraction. "So it is. Well, you're not alone now..."

“Bingo.” He leaned forward on his elbow, his thumb brushing his bottom lip, those battered, knuckles unintentionally on display. "What are you drinkin' tonight, Tahlia?"

Tahlia studied that misshapen fist a hand drifting out to run up his forearm slowly. "Scotch. For now. Might try something different, later..." She leaned in, letting her breath waft over those broken knuckles, jade green locked on sapphire blue and not blinking.

The bartender approached. "May I get you drink, sir." He asked Simon. Those blue eyes never left her, almost never blinked. Oh yeah. He was picturing her in all manner of pleasing ways. "Lagavulin. Neat. Two."

Tahlia met his gaze head on. "Beat a man unconscious, hmm? Sounds like a fun start to the evening..."

A grin formed on that bruised face. "Yeah. Helluva start. Skinny guy. Too fast for his own good."

"Tried to pull a lead pipe on me." Simon continued. "He'll be on a liquid diet for a while."

He hadn't just won that fight, he'd DOMINATED that fight. And it showed in those eyes, in that confident swagger. It showed on that cocky little grin on his face.

There was the slightest flutter to her lashes, the softest purr from her throat, a visceral response she couldn't quite hide. She ignored the bartender, the hand at his jaw dropping lower, stroking along a firmly muscled shoulder, to grip carefully at the bicep threatening to tear his shirt "I bet...you really must have done a number on him..." And she was eating it up, clearly. "Fast has its uses...but it’s nothing against a good, hard shot..."

"Heard last night, when I was creepin' off by my lonesome waiting for a smokin' hot blonde to come talk at me that you're a fighter yourself?"

"I am - kinda. I've only gotten in the ring three times - won twice. One guy had a thing for my heels....kept getting them in the face." Her eyes lit with warmth, and she tilted her head to the side. "You should come out...not as raw as what you're used to, but I bet you could pin me in no time..." She hadn't missed the comment about redheads, oh no.

She could feel the meat of his muscle roll beneath her fingers as the drink was set before him and he reached to grab it. He was all solid, hard muscle. Dangerous muscle forged by hand-to-hand combat. He chuckled then. "That *is* enticin'." He said in that low, drawling voice. "Though...I think I can think of a few places where we might practice this...pinnin' you thing a little ahead of schedule."

He lifted that glass to his lips, letting it touch, before pulling it back. "What do you say?" He smirked and took a sip.

Her eyes never left his. Her expression never faltered. She leaned forward, getting in close. "I’d say...It's about goddamn time?"

Simon grinned to her. He stood, towering over the strawberry blonde, offering one of those rough, battered hands "I hope you cleared your schedule.”

[Simon Toews]

It was supposed to be a one night thing. In the afterglow, the pair of them agreed the best course of action was to remain casual. They didn’t exactly DO the dating thing. No, they were more the find and screw as many people as they could type. Not strings, no jealousy, no commitments. They agreed on this...again. And again. And again. Each time was the “last.”

Sure it was.

For someone who prided herself on never letting anyone take up too much space in her head, or bed, Tahlia seemed to be struggling with both. Maybe it was something about this place she’d found herself in - maybe it was the distance from her siblings. All she knew was that she’d spent more nights than she normally did in the arms of one man, and FAR too much time thinking about another. Clearly, this required an intervention.

She’d hit the clubs - not the ones where the city’s elite went to see and be seen - no, tonight she went looking for the masses. Blue-collar hangouts where the music was too loud, the lights were too dim, and the drinks were too strong. What she wanted was someone simple - an easy mark who would take his pleasure and pass out, and let her get on with her evening. Just a bit of strange, as they said, to break up the long stretches where she’d found herself getting too comfortable at the ranch, or indulging her wild side in every alley and hotel and stolen car Simon had managed to find thus far. What she found was a rough-spoken romeo a foot taller than she was, who clearly spent more time in a gym than he ever had in a classroom. He didn’t hesitate, and neither did she, nodding with a wicked smile when he said he had something that would make her night interesting. She’d heard it all before - it rarely proved true, and the kind of men who could, rarely boasted of the ability. But exceptional men were her current trouble, the cure to which was standing in front of her - or so she thought.

The motel was about what she expected - run-down and seedy, but clean enough to keep a steady stream of trade through the doors. She stayed outside while he got the key from the crotchety hypocrite in the office, standing under rules he encouraged being broken as long as he got paid in advance. Jade eyes flicked across the parking lot, the exposed walkways - she avoided cameras like the plague these days. Not that she expected them here, but you just never knew. Her ‘date’ for the evening came up behind her with the key in hand, smearing wet kisses against her neck and pawing at her as he guided her up a flight of stairs that tried to catch her heels, and toward a room as far from the lights, and the parking lot, as it seemed possible to get. There wasn’t anything special about the room itself - a bed, covered with one of the thin, scratchy duvets that all motels seemed to have, this one faded to extremes, nightstands on either side, a table she wouldn’t trust with a bottle of scotch, and two chairs. A half-open door lead to a bathroom she’d prefer not to see more of, and before she could take any further stock of her surroundings, a coat went flying onto a chair, and a calloused palm with two red pills hovered before her eyes. “Ever tried these before?”

“What are they?” They didn’t look familiar, but there were always new designer drugs, always new ways to alter perspective. She’d never worried too much about them, anything she didn’t want in her bloodstream didn’t stay there long. “They call it Ascend - it makes you feel really good - lets you do things you never thought you could do, or be.” His beer-scented breath wafted across her cheek. “I’ve heard it makes sex more intense…”

With a shrug, she took one of the capsules, taking a step away and swallowing it dry before sticking her tongue out to prove she’d swallowed it. “More intense, huh, stud? Sure you can handle it?”
That was the last clear thing she remembered for a while - the drug hit hard, making everything more vibrant, enough that sensations overwhelmed thought, and they were on the bed, clothes torn off in a flurry of mouths and hands and skin. It was as much a wrestling match as anything else, first one than the other on top, until he had her on her back, thrusting wildly, with one hand wrapped around her throat and forcing her head back. She could tell there would be bruises on her arms, her legs, where he’d forgotten his strength, becoming more feral with every passing moment. Not a great conversationalist when they’d started, the man above her was reduced to snarls and growls, something wild and not quite human looking down at her from his face.

Her nails raked across his chest, his arms, his face, anywhere they could make contact, but all it seemed to do was spur him on. His free hand swung at her face, hard enough to rattle her thoughts, while the other closed tighter, cutting off air and any chance of speech. She clawed at his wrist in a futile attempt to pry his fingers from her throat, but kept losing her grip as the blows kept coming, snapping her head to the side and leaving her dazed, the struggle to keep fighting more difficult each time.

Just when she thought she was done, her limbs limp, lids struggling not to fall closed as if that would be the final straw - he let go of her throat with a howl of triumph. Or at least, it was meant to be. The rush of oxygen gave her the only chance she needed, and she exhaled a single, fervent word. Not enough to kill, or so she thought, that lesson hard learned in another room worlds away - but enough to weaken, to give her a chance to escape. “Bleed…” But the drug that had turned him into a savage beast had done its work on her as well - amplifying her powers to a degree she’d never felt before. The blood came, but in torrents, shredding his skin from the scratches she’d left behind to the deep claw marks of a wild cat. His howl became a gurgle as his cheeks sank, his body hollowed out - every drop of blood in him now splashed across the bed, the wall, the floor - and Tahlia.

Still dazed and reeling from the drugs effects, she managed to drag herself from beneath the husk, falling to the floor and staring at it in shock. Never had her powers not obeyed her whim - that, more than the body, more than the blood...that, and the sound of her brother’s voice in her ear, admonishing her to keep her head down, had her scrambling to her feet. Shoes lost, clothing destroyed in the first wave of euphoria from the pills, she grabbed the coat he’d tossed over a chair, and tugged it over her crimson washed form. People died all the time, here, in spectacular ways, and the Watch hardly seemed to notice. She needed to get out, figure out what was going on...making sure the coat was closed (even in Rhy’Din, she suspected blood-soaked naked women might raise a brow) she heard a wet thump as something fell from a pocket to hit the floor. Something leather, with a metal badge that glistened mockingly from the spreading pool of blood. “Shit.” No ordinary body then...and she was in no shape to help herself.

Picking her way across the floor, she found her clutch, and finally opened it on her third try, hands shaking as she scrolled down the brief list of contacts. She couldn’t call her siblings - even Luke might not help, and they were too far away. There was only one person she could call, and she tapped his name before she could think too much. Trying not to lean against the wall, not to touch anything, she held the phone to her ear, trembling as the drug started to burn away and she could feel the high fading. “Simon? I think I fucked up really badly…”

[Simon Toews]

Simon sat, long body draped across his couch, staring up at the rafters of the warehouse he'd converted to his home. A joint smoldered, held between thumb and forefinger, as the phone went off. Blue eyes glanced upward as he coughed a bit, twisting uncomfortably and reaching for his phone on the coffee table. "Come on you..." he accidentally knocked it to the floor. "Fuck! Pain in the..." He leaned down and snatched it, hitting the answer button. "YO?"

"Simon? I think I fucked up really badly..." She didn't bother with a name, fairly certain he'd know who it was. Her hands were starting to shake, from whatever that pill was, maybe, or adrenaline. There was the tiniest quaver to the smoky voice that was usually so smooth and confident. She'd nearly dropped the phone twice, blood slicking her palms...her arms. She was covered. But that was the least of it.

His brow furrowed, hearing that tone in her voice. "Tahlia? What's goin' on? You alright?"
He couldn't see her, but she shook her head anyway, glancing over at the wreckage on the bed.

"No...I went to the club...picked up some guy...it got...messy. I think he gave me something...starting hitting me..." Her breath caught in her throat, and there was a soft cough as she remembered to breath. "I need help..."

Why did that make him so angry? He wanted to go, find whoever hit her and pound his face into jelly. "Alright. Listen to me. Where are you right now?"

"Hang on..." She stumbled to the cheap blinds, and pried them open just enough to read the tacky neon sign. "Some place called the No-tell Motel...ugh. I did NOT see that on the way in..." Like that mattered, now... "I think it's room 503...back corner...second floor...farthest from the parking lot...and the lights..."

He didn't need to be told what happened, he could guess just from what she HAD said and her tone. "You stay there. You stay right there. I'll be there in 20." Simon grabbed his "tools" and set out down the stairs. A few minutes and smashed in window later, and he was well on his way to her.

"Ok..." She clicked the phone off, and sank to the floor. She didn't want to sit on the bed, and she could feel the blood getting sticky and drying on her skin and in her hair. She was having trouble thinking, and she blinked a few times, shaking her head against the fog.

Not that much later, Simon stepped down the hall, a duffle bag draped over his shoulder, a black hoodie and black leather gloves adorning his figure. The coppery scent of blood hit him before he even reached the door. Jesus, Tahlia what did you do? He reached out for the knob, turning it and slowly pushing the door open. Half out of it, she managed to scramble to her feet, swaying slightly in a too-big jacket, and nothing else. Well, nothing else if you didn't count the blood that painted her in streaks and splashes from head to hips, her hair nearly crimson. The golden tone of her skin was closer to yellow...her eyes anime-wide and blinking slowly. And behind her...the drained husk of her “date”, chest and arms looking like he'd been attacked by a wild creature.

This was a bit much for even him. His brows knit together, travelling first over the splatters that covered the walls, bed, ceiling and furniture. Those blue eyes moved down to the husk that was once a man. Finally they went over her blood-stained form. "Jesus..." Quickly, he shut the door behind him and walked up to her. "Tahlia?" He said quietly.

The bruises were just visible, starting to form beneath the wash of blood. Whatever the drug was...and she sincerely intended to avoid it at all costs from now on, seemed to be cycling out of her system, leaving her foggy and a little numb. "Hey, killer..." She tried for a half smile, just the slightest hint of jade showing around the edges of her eyes, still trying for coquettish under all the blood.

He placed his gloved hands on her shoulders. "Tahlia, I want you to listen to me." He said, all business. "I'm going to take care of this, but I need you to go into the bathroom and get in the shower, alright?" Those blue eyes were intense and showed no room for argument. He wasn't sure WHAT she'd done, but now was NOT the time to ask.

She didn't even think to argue. Partly because he was right, and she was in no condition to do anything useful. And partly because it was exactly what Luke would have told her to do, if he'd been there. She gave a little nod, and dropped the jacket where she stood...next to the wallet with its bronze shield. "Ok...I...thank you..." She rubbed her cheek against his knuckles, and turned to head back into the bathroom she'd glimpsed in the back of the room. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. In no time, the sound of water, and curls of steam, started to escape the tiles.

He glanced at the wallet, grimacing. "Shit." He whispered as she disappeared into the bathroom. No time to waste, he immediately grabbed the drained corpse and lifted it... all too light in its current state, and dragged it up onto the bed, setting it up like it was just laying there normally. Simon set to work moving over to the gas-radiator, he reached into his bag, grabbing a pick and a hammer, placing the tip up against the supply pipe and gave it a good whack, the gas just beginning to filter out.

Leaning against the tile, she let the water beat on her bowed head for a while, watching the water turn red and swirl down the drain. The steam helped, clearing some of the fog, but everything was still a blur, and her body ached, stinging in a few spots as the water sluiced over her, the heat bringing back some of her normal sun-kissed coloring. Once she got most of the blood off, she worked shampoo into her hair, loosening the dried bits, before rinsing and conditioning, and turning her face to the spray one last time. Turning the water off, she grabbed one of the thin, scratchy excuses for towels, and dried off as best she could. Standing in the doorway, she watched Simon work, shifting her weight slightly to avoid leaning against anything - now that she was clean, her throat was shades of purple and midnight already and
there were bruises everywhere not covered by the towel.

He grabbed a bottle of lighter fluid from the bag, and glanced out into the hallway. The place was clear. Apparently, this area of the motel was currently only populated by Tahlia and the hollow man over there. He looked up at her. No fucking WAY he could get her out dressed like THAT. He slipped his hoodie off, baring those strong, muscled tatted up arms. "Put this on." He nodded, holding the garment out.

She picked a careful path from the bathroom to where he stood, taking the offered hoodie with a small smile. Slipping it on, she tugged the fabric over her hips, so it at least covered her to mid-thigh, and zipped it closed. She could see her clutch, and her phone. Everything else...well, she'd used fire a few times herself, and the smell of gas was starting to tickle her nose. "Simon..." She swallowed, or tried to, coughing a little. As fierce as her powers had been, she was almost weak as a kitten now. She had no idea what to say. No-one beyond her family had ever helped her...not like this. And she wasn't sure she trusted it, entirely. "Guess you won't owe me for that threesome after all..."

He stared at her a moment before one corner of his mouth upturned and he breathed out a laugh. Back to business her pointed out a relatively blood-free path to the door. "Be careful, yeah?"

She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, grabbing purse and phone on her way to the door, and pulling the hood up to cover the reddish-gold waves that shone even in this unforgiving light. Pausing at the threshold, she looked back at him.

He stepped over to the body, putting a half-smoked, stubbed out cig in its fingers before making his way carefully into the bathroom. Quickly he rinsed the blood from his gloves, making sure it all went down the drain. The gas was rapidly filling the room as he stepped out in the hall laying down a puddle of lighter fluid leading into the room and sliding the door shut. He re-capped the bottle and replaced it in his bag. "We're going to have to move quick. This isn't going give us a ton of time." He said. He drew out a pack of smokes and pulled out one cig with his teeth and lit it, getting the cherry going. He crouched down and set the filter in the fluid and quickly turned, striding purposefully right toward her, his hand snagging her arm as he passed and bringing her with him. "Come on."
The walkway, the steps, nevermind the parking lot, were all rough and had the vague glitter of broken glass. She was standing on the walkway, swaying slightly. Then she was moving, getting dragged along in his wake, and trying not to yelp at the tiny pebbles that bit at her feet.

They stepped outside and he pointed to an old Camaro, looking at the stone and glass littered lot. A grimace on his face. "Fuck it." He turned and scooped her up in his arms and started toward the car quickly. Adrenaline was pumping and she seemed to weigh nothing right now.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and kept her weight even. After this...she'd likely owe him more than just a threesome. She wanted out of there as much as he did. If not more. This was the second cop she'd killed in as many months. If word got back to her siblings...she clung a little tighter, burying her head in his shoulder.

Simon brought her to the passenger side and helped her in as quickly as he could. "Buckle up. We're gonna need to get the hell out of here as quick as possible." He said. "Watch your arm." He shut the door and checked his watch. Simon grit his teeth and ran to the other side and climbed in, the car left running from his arrival. The door slammed and he threw the car in reverse, jamming on the gas, tires squealing as he backed onto the main stretch of highway. He slammed the car into gear and hit the accelerator driving off quickly as a low boom that they could feel deep in their cores shook the ground and the room they had been in erupted in a massive ball of flame, glass, and debris. Simon didn't flinch. Didn't look back. Just stared straight ahead with that steely-eyed gaze of determination, one hand on the wheel, the other on the shifter, dead set on putting as many miles between them and the burning husk that was once a motel room.

[John Calloway]

Calloway slept at his desk, head rested upon his forearms after yet another in a long line of too-long nights that resulted in absolutely nothing but him passing out at his desk. The nearly empty handle of Jack Daniels beside his slumbering form didn’t help matters either. Two months passed and he was nowhere close to catching Smitty’s killer. There weren’t a lot of people mourning his passing. His ex wife Jill simply nodded and took another drag of her cigarette. She pretty much expected that call to come in at some point. But Smitty’s kids were another story. It was one of the most difficult things Calloway had ever had to do. They were still tearful when he left, but Jill remained stoic, the tired, empty look in her eyes.

The only people in attendance for the funeral were the uniformed officers required to be there and Smitty’s mother with her caretaker. She didn’t even seem to be aware of what was going on and kept complaining about the weather. There would be few to mourn Gregory Smith, but John Calloway was seemingly the only one who demanded justice.

Valerie picked up the bottle, looking at it with disapproval. John Calloway was once one of the best agents she’d had the privilege of working with. Since Smitty’s murder, though, he’d descended rather quickly into an unhealthy obsession. She grabbed his wastebasket, leveling it next to his ear, and slammed the bottle into it, Calloway snapped suddenly wide awake, the agent barely catching himself from falling back out of his chair.

“You look like shit.” Valerie’s said, setting the trashbin down. She walked over to the empty coffee maker in Calloway’s office, that frown just increasing in intensity. His office was a goddamn mess, a pile of discarded pizza and chinese food containers amassed atop the counter and overflowing from a trash can. Paper strewn over every available surface and a stack of folders so precariously high, she was stunned they hadn’t collapsed and buried the man. “Jesus, John. This place is a shithole. You even been home in the past few days?”

Her rubbed his eyes and yawned, a few days of stubble covering his usually clean-shaven face. “Been busy.”

Valerie eyed the mountain of files and photos spread all over, trying to ID their suspect. “I see that.” She said, ambling over to the desk. “John?”

He looked up to her, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.

“Think maybe it’s time to give up the ghost? Maybe...step aside and let someone else take over?” She asked him gently.

“Greg is dead, Val.” Calloway rumbled, not at all in the mood for this conversation.

“Yes. He is. And it sucks.” She empathized. “But you’re not going to honor him by killing yourself.”

“You’d rather I just gave up on him? Like everyone else?”

“I didn’t say that.” Valerie defended herself.

“You want a cop killer to walk. A woman who drained him of every last drop of blood he had and splattered him all over the fucking room like a goddamn Jackson Pollack...You want her to get away with that?”

“I didn’t-”

“Fuck tha-”

“God damn it, John, shut your mouth and listen!” Valerie exploded and gestured to the mirror on the other side of the room. “Look at yourself! Fucking LOOK! You’re on the edge, man. You’re obsessed and it isn’t healthy. You think you’re the only one who can solve this thing and you’re wearing it like a goddamn lead weight. You’re killing yourself, John, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose a good partner because he’s lost sight of where the line is!”

John looked up at her with those bloodshot eyes, a mask of weariness and exhaustion upon his face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh.” Val nodded bitterly. “Right. This is you?” She gestured to his disheveled form. “THIS...shabby, stinking-and you DO stink. This jack ass sitting in front of me half-drunk at 8 AM is ‘normal’ for you?”

Calloway let out an exasperated, whiskey-reeking breath and leaned back in his chair. Even he had to admit it was pretty rank, his nose crinkling at the scent.

[Simon Toews]

Simon sat at the bar, mid-day, an empty beer bottle in front of him and a cigarette hanging from his lips. On the TV, a horse race was playing. Simon put down some big money on this one, and it wasn’t looking good. He bet on an underdog, and was beginning to think he might have taken a bit too large a gamble.

A man settled in beside him at the bar. Well-coiffed, clad in a gray suit without a tie, the white dress shirt open a few buttons to his clavicle. Simon sized him up immediately. Broad-chested, biceps straining the material of his suit coat. Obviously a man who could handle himself.

The barkeep approached, “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey sour.” The stranger said. Simon gave him another glance, drawing the dark haired fellow’s attention as the glass was slid in front of him. Steely blue eyes looked to the empty sitting in front of the tatted fighter. “And another beer for my friend, here.”

Everything about this guy screamed “COP” to him. But never one to pass up a free beer, Simon accepted. He raised the bottle to Johnny haircut over there, receiving a raise of the glass in return. He turned his gaze back to the TV as his horse fell behind. He lost big time. A grimace crossed his face. “God damn it…”

The man glanced up at the screen. “You just lose some green, there?” He asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Simon stubbed out his cigarette. He’d play along. “Yeah. 10 large.”

The stranger sucked air in through his teeth, making a sympathetic face. “Ooooh...ouch.”

“Fuckin’ tellin’ me.”

“Well, here’s to ya.” the man said. Silence hung between them as Simon lit another cigarette. “Name’s John. John Calloway.” He intro’d himself.

Simon glanced over, not exactly warm toward him as he offered an upnod.

“Simon.” was all he gave.

Calloway watched him a moment with an easy going smile on his face. “What you do, Simon?”

Was this guy still trying to keep the ruse up that he wasn’t there specifically FOR him? Simon just smirked. “Youth Pastor. Keepin’ the kids off the streets and in the light of the Lord.”

Calloway laughed lightly. “Youth pastor. I like that.” He took another sip.

“Yeah, it’s a laugh riot.” Simon said with a sigh, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “So, you got something you wanna ask, or we gonna keep pretendin’ I don’t know what you are?”

Calloway grinned. He liked a worthy opponent. “Where’s Tahlia Farras, Simon?”

“Never heard of her.” He said cooly without thinking.

“Funny. Because I have it on good authority you two have been seen together multiple times over the past month. Now, I’m not exactly a playboy myself, but if I had a minx in the backseat of a car I was driving, I’d probably remember her.” Calloway eyed him like they were playing a game of poker.

“Sounds like you need to get laid more.” Simon countered.

The stranger leaned against the bar and nodded as if considering the idea. “Call me old fashioned.”

“I’d rather call you gone.” Simon nodded to him. “There anythin’ else.”

Calloway just watched him with that amused little grin, silent. Simon stubbed out his cigarette and pushed away from the bar. “Thanks for the beer.”

Calloway watched him go for a moment, but his words stopped Simon cold. “Tahlia Farras is a cop killer, Simon. She murdered a friend of mine, and I’m going to find her, you understand me?”

The tall Fed stood up from his stool and moved toward Simon. “She’s gonna burn. Up to you if you want to burn with her.”

Simon locked eyes with him, that unflinching, dangerous expression on his face. “You should go home, officer. This place ain’t for you.”

Calloway nodded, keeping very cool, calm and confident. “Mm. No. I think I’m right where I need to be.”

Simon grinned back at him. “You said you were gonna burn her. You know the problem with fire, John? It’s unpredictable. Watch out you don’t light yourself up in the process.”

With that, Simon turned and headed toward the door, leaving Calloway in his wake, a grin on the handsome man’s face. He watched as that tattooed thug disappeared out the door. He glanced over to the bartender a moment. “You. I want you to tell me everything you know about that man.”

[Simon Toews]

Tahlia'd spent the last week and a half mostly at the house, except for her shifts at the Line. About to go stir crazy, Tahlia had ventured out to a local diner...not exactly the friendliest place, but at least they were polite. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, golden waves pulled over one shoulder, she stared down at the menu, a cup of barely passable coffee close at hand. She should have known better than to ask for an espresso...the waitress hadn't even known what she was asking for, and Tahlia hadn't bothered explaining. She could hear the buzz of whispers, but at this point, she'd be more concerned if they stopped.

He'd arrived in town earlier that day, and it hadn't taken him a long time to find someone who knew about her. The people were all too ready to talk, spilling the beans about Tex and his family and the little hussy he'd picked up. It was just good fortune that he saw her out and about, tailing the blonde into the diner. Public places would make a woman like her less likely to cause a scene, he knew. And with her need to lay low, this was the perfect time. The man who slid into the booth across from her was about 6'3", handsome in an all american sort of way. That square jawed, neatly combed stranger with the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow beginning to form looked across the table. Sharp, blue eyes took her in. "I like the blonde." He said simply. "Must attract less attention than the red, huh?"

Taking a sip of her coffee, she toyed with the menu. She wasn't really hungry anyway...she'd just needed to get out of the house before she started climbing the walls. The sudden movement caught her attention, and she looked up with the kind of sharp, assessing look that most of the diners denizens couldn't muster on a bet. Setting the mug down carefully, but keeping her fingers wrapped around it, she tilted her head to the side, regarding the interloper with cool, jade green eyes. "Do I know you? Because as far as pick-up lines go...that one kind of sucks." She had a suspicion who he was, but there was no reason to let him know she knew he'd been looking for her.

That tight smile that formed on his face was anything but friendly. "Me?" He asked, pursing his lips contemplatively before shaking his head. "No. You don't know me." He turned to the waitress who walked up offering coffee. "Please." He smiled and thanked her and then turned back to Tahlia. "No, Ms. Faras. You don't know me. But you knew a friend of mine."

"Greg Smith. Friends called him Smitty."

She offered a half smile to the waitress, more to give her a moment to think than out of any sense of politeness. She didn't think she'd ever caught the man's name...she rarely did with the random men she picked up for a few hours entertainment. But this one knew hers...and that caused an icy finger to bloom in her stomach. Had to be the same guy. Turning back to the agent, she shook her head slowly. "If you say so...I know a lot of people, or they know me...I don't always remember names."

He took a sip of his coffee, peering over the rim of the mug. "No. I don't imagine you do." Something about the way he said that made it come off as a vicious dig at her. "I'd be surprised if you knew Mr. Wellington beyond the bedroom, myself."

Her voice chilled measurably, her gaze sharp as cut glass. "Leave Tex out of this. Believe me...digging at me won't get these folks to lift a finger...but you say a word against him, or his mama, and they'll have you out on your ass. And I'll help." It wasn't entirely an act...much as she was dying by inches out here in the sticks, she had a soft spot for the cowboy.

"So. You DO have a soft side." He said with a tight little grin. "Well, don't worry. I'm not after Mr. Wellington. I'm here for you. I'm going to bring you down, Tahlia. You killed my friend, and I have every reason to believe you're responsible for another murder of a policeman here. When I gather the evidence I need, I'm going make sure that there's nowhere you can hide. No one who can protect you. You run? I'll find you. You crawl under a rock, I'll be lifting it and dragging you out into the light again. You're going down. Just depends on who you're going to bring with you."

Well, that sold it. If they were going to play cards on the table...she could do that too. "John...may I call you John? I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Do I look like I could kill anyone? You've got a foot on me, easily...and I can't imagine your friend was any smaller. Besides...aren't you cops supposed to have training for that sort of thing? I don't carry weapons...you can't honestly think I could take down a trained man bigger than I am without one...do you?" She took a sip of her coffee, and leaned back, trying to keep her tone calm, and every appearance that this was a civil conversation between strangers. "I am sorry to hear about your friend...law enforcement can be so dangerous."

That little smirk never faltered, never left his face. He just let her talk. "You count on that. Don't you? You count on the whole 'Well, she's just a sweet, innocent, good-time gal' bit to get you out of trouble." She put on a convincing display, but he saw right through her. "I don't know how you did it. At this point, I don't care. I just know you did." He took another sip of his coffee. "You're sloppy, Ms. Faras. And sooner or later, you're really going to screw up. God help whoever's with you when you do."

"I never claimed to be innocent. Sweet...is up for debate. And you'll never know how much of a good time I can be. But none of that matters." You would think there was ice in her veins, she didn't even flinch. "You're so convinced...remind me, then. Maybe I can help you find whoever you're looking for. Because it isn't me." Luke had said something about a tape...but she didn't want to overplay her hand.

Calloway watched her quietly, silent for a long moment She was REALLY trying to sell the whole innocent act. A lesser man might have fallen for it, or begun to question... but not John Calloway. "I'll give you a choice." He said then. "One: You keep this up and we follow it where it inevitably goes. Or two: You turn yourself in. Spare Mr. Wellington...and Mr. Toews a whole lot of trouble. It's up to you, Ms. Faras." He reached into his back pocket and drew out some cash from his wallet, laying it on the table. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

Calloway slipped out of the booth, looking around the Diner. "This is a nice place." He said simply, drawing out a pair of sunglasses and sliding them onto his face. "Ms. Faras." He said by way of a goodbye and stepped out through the door and disappeared down the street.

She dropped her head into her hands, shaking as she took a few deep breaths. There was no answer she could give. Tex was innocent, and the local leo's wouldn't brook with some random outside lawman causing him trouble. But Simon. Tossing some cash on the table, she slid out of the booth and headed out to her car without a backward glance. Between the two they'd likely overpaid the bill by more than double, but she didn't care. She needed to hold it together...the last thing she needed was rumors of her being visibly upset after meeting with a guy who might as well have been wearing a neon sign that screamed “COP!” Tugging her phone from her back pocket, she dialed the only person, at this point, who mattered.

The voice on the other send sounded under duress...like he was engaged in a physically demanding activity. "Yo." He said, panting on the other end.

He wouldn't...would he? Even he wasn't that much of an ass...oh who was she kidding. At the moment, she didn't care. "Just got a visit from Mr. Straight and Narrow, killer...he's even more wonderful than you told me he was..."

She heard him breathe out, the sound of fists slamming against the punching bag. "Oh yeah?" Whack! Whack whack! "What'd prince charming have to say?"

Dropping into her Spitfire, she snatched up her bluetooth, and fit it into her ear, the engine roaring to life in the background. "Pretty much what you told me. He's connected it with the guy in the motel, but he's not giving me anything." Easing the car out of the lot, her muscles quivering with tension and her refusal to floor it, and peel out into the road, and run. "He's locked on to me...says I have two choices. Turn myself in, or you and Tex are in a whole lot of trouble..."

[John Calloway]

His investigation of Toews and Faras was frustratingly stalled. The pair of deviants were staying out of trouble, for the most part. The most he could say he’d seen them do was spend a lot of time in the shithole Toews called home and ONCE go out to an underground fight. He could hardly bust him for that, so he left before it ended.

Faras was off galavanting with various others, including some pretty wealthy folks, but so far it was all pretty low key. Nothing to really pin on her, aside from sleeping around on Toews. Though, he had a feeling it didn’t matter to the tatted fighter. He was still protecting her, still shacking up with her. If he didn’t know any better, Calloway would say that she was using him.

Toews wasn’t the type to get used, thought. He was wiley. Strong-willed. Whatever was going on, he was in on it.

Most nights were spent in the car, watching his place, letting the man sweat a bit. Enough taunting and he might slip up...do something stupid, Calloway figured.

He sat in his rental car, phone to his ear, still amazed that a cellphone could communicate with another...was it world? Dimension? All that was above his paygrade...and schooling.

“They getting sick of you yet?” Valerie asked him.

Calloway let out a little chuckle. “Yes. Apparently the...I guess you’d call them a police force...they’re in tight with the money around here. And guess who’s been rubbing some wealthy elbows?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say they have red hair.” Valerie said.

“Bingo.” Calloway said with a click of his tongue. “They keep telling me to back off...but I’m so close, Val…”

“John...maybe it’s time to let it go. Come home.” She said.

“I can’t.” he responded, eyes on Faras’ swanky new digs.

He was startled as a knock came at his window. His heartbeat return to normal as he recognized the face. Ilyia Marks, a black-clad representative of The Watch. She slipped into the passenger seat. Those purple hued eyes stayed on him.

“Val…” Calloway said. “I need to go.” He clicked off the phone. “Ms. Marks.”

“Mr. Calloway. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She asked him.

“It’s called a stakeout where I’m from.” He said with a wry grin.

“Yes, I’m aware of the term.” she responded unimpressed. “And I’m sure you’re well aware some of the people who live there.”

He looked up at it. “Pretty nice place. I’d say people with some manner of money.”

“People my bosses would rather you left alone.” Marks said, a hint of warning in her tone.

“You know...where I come from, money doesn’t buy your way out of justice.” Calloway glared.

“I think you and I both know that’s not true.” She leveled her gaze at the man. Calloway couldn’t deny that she was right. How many people had escaped consequences because they threw massive amounts of cash at them?

“You want to follow the lowlife around, then have at it. But as long as Faras is living here, you are to stay away. Is that understood?”

Calloway didn’t respond. He just eyed her a long moment.

“Mr. Calloway.” Marks said, slower and more deliberate. “Is that understood?”

He simply nodded.

“Do not test us, Mr. Calloway. You won’t like the results.”

With that, the woman stepped out of the vehicle and disappeared down the street. Calloway took one last look at the building and put the car into gear.

[Simon Toews]

The plan was simple. The arrogant, stupid, douchebag son of a local crime boss wanted a fight. Simon would oblige, posing under a pseudonym and allow the bets to rack up in Rocco Vicelli’s favor. Then, Tahlia would place the bet. Vicelli would go down and the two of them would make out with enough money to buy a small country.

Tahlia was dressed to kill, or at least to not show any blood that might spatter against her during the fight. Tight enough to show her breasts off to their best advantage, the red bandage dress ended well above her knees - a fact which Rocco was currently trying to use to his. Dressed in boxing silks and a gold chain, he was standing behind her, slobbering against the side of her neck, one hand at her waist, the other dragging up along the inside of her thigh, with a very clear goal in mind. A toss of her head sent ink-dark waves across his face, gold hoops sparkling as she slapped at his hand with a whine echoed from her soft palate.

“Rawco! Getoff! I told ya...afteh the fight! Gawd...ahl ya havta do is beat some losah silly, and then it’s ahll you-uhs…” The accent grated on her nerves, pitched higher than her usual throaty purr, but it served its purpose. Rocco had been panting at her heels since they’d ‘accidentally’ met in the VIP lounge of his favorite nightspot...and the fact that she hadn’t just spread her legs for him had seemed to hold a strange fascination for the man-child no-one said no to.

Getting the Vicelli’s to bet big had taken hardly any effort at all...a few teasing comments whispered in his ear, and the promise that everything he wanted would be his...once he won. “It’s time...yeah? Let’s go, stud...show me what you can do...so I can show you what I can do, huh?” Sauntering toward the cage, and the crowd, she buried the shudder in an extra shimmy of her hips, and just decided to be thankful that Simon hadn’t seen how hard she’d had to fight Rocco off before the fight.

Her seats were with Vincenzo Vicelli and his men. Most of the men with him were staring at phones or looking around cautiously. Though one of them, the only non-italian looking member of the group, stared hard at the currently empty ring. Slim, dark-haired, the bearing of a career criminal. Something in his eyes indicating a hard-lived life despite his youthful face. The elder Vicelli was tall, thick, and though he had a bit of a gut, he was strong as a bear. Even in his silence, he was intimidating. Black hair slicked back atop his head, dark eyes regarding her a moment before a sweet smile upturned his lips. "Hello there, sweetheart. Have a seat." He greeted her, gesturing one of those big meathooks to the seat beside him, a burning stogie between his fingers.

"Oh, sure..." The deathly high heels clicked against the stands, and she folded herself into the offered seat. Father and son made her vaguely ill...not with nerves, or fear, but the sickening amount of cologne they bathed in. Cheap, too, which just made it worse. Let him think he frightened her, though...it was what he expected, and would keep him off guard. Tugging at her skirt, which, of course, only made the neckline press against her tightly bound breasts, she settled her clutch in her lap, and looked over at the ring...eyes scanning the gathered men around her. Getting out might be a challenge, but she was certain she would come up with something. "Ya think Rocco will be done with this guy before the club closes? I'm guessing he's gonna wanna celebrate..." It wasn't going to happen, and she knew it..but it was a good gauge of where the groups heads were.

Vincenzo glanced her way, a grin spreading across his lips. "Found you at a club, huh?" He nodded. Typical He knew his son and his proclivities. Rocco did like the clubrats. To be honest, he was just relieved the girl was conscious. That was not always a guarantee with the kid. "Guy he's fightin's a nobody. Should be over n' done in no time."

Simon sat waiting in the wings, his battered fists wrapped tight, hiding those misshapen knuckles. A loose robe covered his muscled form, hiding it, too, from his opponent at the beginning. This was theater. A show. Rocco Vicelli was a muscle headed goon. He expected a weakling to wail upon. Simon wanted to see that look in his eyes when a real fighter stood before him. Wanted to see the moment when he realized the fight was real, and he couldn’t depend on daddy to get him out of it.

Vicelli eyed her up and down, appreciating the outfit she was poured into. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Teresa Marie...but everyone calls me Tessa..." She flushed under his gaze, head ducking to spill dark hair across bare, ivory skin, and blood red fabric. "Yeah...we met at the Mercury last night...VIP lounge...Rocco said he liked the way I danced..." More likely he'd liked the barely there outfit she'd worn...and the fact that she'd simpered and fawned when he said he was going to beat a man senseless the next night.

He snorted then, a wry little smile on his face. "Yeah, I bet he did." The crowd cheered suddenly as the barker stepped out into the middle of the ring.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to fight night!" He rose his fist into the air to thunderous applause.

"Are you ready for battle?!" Another loud cheer.

"Are you ready for brawn?!" Another.

"ARE YOU READY FOR BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD?!" The place went completely shithouse. Vincenzo looked around, mildly amused.

"Let's bring out our first fighter! Hailing from the West End. The Man of Muscle...ROCCOOOOOOOOO VICELLIIIIIIIIII!" Rocco came out all energy and spunk. Sunglasses, no shirt, and those stupid tribal tattoos. He ripped the beer out of a spectator's hand and slammed it, spilling most of it all over himself before chucking it aside and hopping up into the ring. Even the Barker looked annoyed.
It took every ounce of will she had not to roll her eyes, instead turning the shudder of irritated revulsion into an impressed shiver. "Ooo...he's so....cawnfident. Caw-cky. Real man.."

"Annnnnnnnd now. His competitor. A new name to the circuit! Welcome....BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIAN BENNNNNNNNNIGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNN!" Simon pulled the name out of thin air before they set up the match. It sounded like a good non-descript pseudonym.

The din of the raucous crowd hit Simon’s ears as he stepped down the path to the gated ring. Rocco stood there, 5’10” of glamour muscle. Flexing away like a pro wrestler, trying to amp up the crowd. His dark beard was trimmed thin along his jawline and his hair spiked up immaculately. Those pretty-boy douchebag looks accentuated with tribal tats and a gold chain around his neck. Simon was going to make him eat it. He was going to have fun destroying him.

Tahlia perked up, and turned her attention to the cage below. She was sure they thought the nibbling at her bottom lip was for Rocco...showboating around the ring like the WWE wannabe he was. Only the most careful, almost preternaturally aware observer would realize her attention was focused on the robed and hooded figure facing him.

One of Vicelli’s boys gestured to the stoic fighter in the robe, amused "Lookit this guy. Looks scrawny... Rocky's gonna wipe the mat with this fuckface."

Tahlia was quick to agree. Best to keep up appearances. "Jeez...what kinda name is that? Nuthin...."

Vincenzo watched his idiot son parade around, looking thoroughly unamused. "'least this guy's actin' like a man. Not a little fuckin' boy." He looked like he wanted to go down and slap the living shit out of Rocco himself.

"Maybe he spends too much time in Papa's shadow..." It was a low, barely vocalized purr,

Her eyes never left the ring, utterly ignoring Rocco in favor of Simon's still hidden form. With a shake of her head...she tossed her hair, and shot a glance over at the older Vicelli. "I'm sure he'll make you proud...really show his worth..."

"Why start now?" He muttered, taking a big puff off his cigar.

Rocco pointed at his opponent, threateningly. Beneath the hood a lopsided grin formed slowly on Simon’s face as he ascended the stairs into the ring. The showrunner walked up behind Simon stepping between the two fighters. “Gentlemen. The rules are simple. The fight goes on as long as it has to. If one of you taps out, goes limp, dies? The fight is over. No shirts. No shoes. No jewelry, Kid.” He said staring hard at Rocco.

The kid just smirked. “I ain’t takin’ off my chain, bitch. ‘Sides. This little punk’s gonna be doing a drum solo in about 5 seconds, lookin’ for a way out of this fight.”

Simon looked unimpressed, a sidelong glance sent the runner’s way as a smirk hit both their faces.

“Your funeral kid.” He said. “Let’s do this.”

Simon lowered his hood, eyes locked on the kid, unblinking. He slowly and deliberately pulled off the robe, revealing a body that had been forged in hand to hand combat. Chiseled features on display, packed with hard muscle. A fighter’s body. A warrior’s body, littered with tattoos. He handed the robe off to the runner and eyed Rocco like a lion stalking its prey.

Tahlia pressed her hand to her lips, and bit down on the inside of her cheek. Every time. Every time it was just as bad as the first and her fist clenched in her lap as muscles fluttered unseen beneath her dress... "Oooh....he's...I dunno...he doesn't look so bad..." She allowed a hint of doubt to creep in for the first time.

Vincenzo’s reaction was not quite as joyous. When the robe dropped, there was a spark of realization in the elder Vicelli's eyes. "What the fuck..." This was not the scrawny fighter he’d been sold on. This was a man cut from steel. This was a fighter.

It was just a second...but Simon saw that confident air leave the kid. This was what he wanted so badly. This moment of hopelessness in the little punk’s eyes. He’d bitten off way more than he could chew and he knew it. But fucked if he was going to show weakness in front of everybody. If there was one thing these greaseballs treasured, it was their reputation. Rocco forced a smile, pacing around the ring and throwing his arms up, trying to stir the crowd to no avail. The only people cheering him now were his father and his goons.

Simon casually walked , watching him sidelong, the kid pumping himself up, readying to attack. Rocco threw that first punch and Simon easily leaned out of the way. Another jab that hit nothing. Simon gave an antagonistic little smirk that just infuriated the kid. “Come on, you pussy! Fight!”

That just made Simon chuckle. OH that did not help Rocco’s mood.

Vincenzo leaned back to his men. "Find out who this fuckin' guy is." He turned to “Teresa”. "I think we're gettin' played here. This fuck’s a ringer." As the fight began, Vincenzo's eyes narrowed, those big fists clenching. Behind him his man seemed to get more and more enraged.

"Who would do that though? I mean...why?" She stammered slightly in innocent confusion. They'd known once things started, all bets were off...

Another vicious jab was thrown, but this time, he turned his body into Rocco’s, left arm grabbing that punching arm as his right elbow slammed into the kid’s throat. He looked stunned, clutching his neck, trying to get his breath back. The smile left Simon’s face as he ripped the chain from the kid’s neck and wrapped it around his fist.

He hit him again and again and again in the face, the gold stained red as it cut into the flesh of the stumbling little punk. In a bit of a daze he managed to push aside the next punch the threw a wild one of his own that connected with Simon’s jaw. The kid may not have been experienced, but that muscle wasn’t nothing. He stumbled back, letting the pain in for just a moment. And then stood back up with a grin. The crowd went absolutely batshit.

Rocco charged at him throwing a barrage of punches that all managed to miss as Simon bobbed, weaved, ducked, and leaned away gracefully, almost lazily. He threw a jab to the kid’s solar plexus and dodged the response. Threw another to his ribs and ducked a punch that might have taken his head off. The next barrage was just defense as he backed away, leading Rocco back, back, back toward the cage.

Simon saw his opening and took it, ducking low into a crouch under an attack and upper-cutting him directly to the balls. As Rocco doubled over, Simon pushed up with one knee, his body rising as his arm prepared to rocket upwards. That hard, rock-like fist connected with Rocco’s chin, his artificially white front teeth chipping against each other from the force of the blow.

Rocco was somewhere else now, but he was still standing. Simon grabbed him by the back of his head and whirled him around, throwing him, face-first into the metal bars of the cage. As the kid slumped he drove his knee into Rocco’s back until he hit the ground. The bell rang as Rocco lay there, completely unconscious, utterly humiliated, and soundly defeated.

Simon rose to his feet, panting and glistening with sweat and his opponent’s blood as the place went insane. His fist rose, still wrapped in that chain, eyes scanning the crowd and then threw it at the out-cold body of Rocco. The arena lost their minds...but he made eye contact with the one person in the room who mattered. A little private smirk sent her way before he was ushered out of the ring.

As Rocco fell, Vincenzo was fuming. He turned to "Teresa" looking enraged. "I think it's time for you to go home, sweetheart." He gave her her out. Her date wouldn't be joining her anyway.

The man behind him stared at the exiting "Brian", a darkness to him. "I know that motherfucker. I swear to God, I know him."

She didn't argue with Vicelli, eyes wide as she rose and scampered down from the stands. She didn't leave, oh no. Once she was out of sight, she slowed to a stalking stride that took her to the locker rooms, and slipped inside. She'd known which one was his...and after the fight...he'd hardly gotten a scratch, from the looks of it. She just wouldn't be content til she checked for herself.

By the time she made it to the locker room, Simon was standing there, towel around his shoulders, body streaked with sweat and blood, his eyes turning to her. A little smirk crossed his lips.

"Shit...killer...you were perfect..." Right now, nothing else mattered. Not even bothering to drop her clutch, still raven-haired and dressed like Rocco's wet dream, she crossed the space between them, and cupped her free hand along his jaw. "Just perfect." Hardly needing to rise in those fuck-me heels, she brought her lips to his for a soul-searing kiss.

Simon grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close to him, his mouth pressing to her's, returning the kiss. "And you...Jesus fuckin’ Christ...how that guy even MADE it to the fight without sufferin’ a heart attack is beyond me..." His mouth attacked her's again, hungry for her. Starving for her.

The moan that was muffled against his lips and tongue was clear assent. Her tongue spilled over her lips to dance with his, twisting and snaking while her body pressed hard enough to him to soak in the spatters of Rocco' blood, and Simon's sweat. "That thing with the chain..." The words gasped as she snuck a breath and then surrendered to his kiss again, her arms twining over his shoulders.

He nudged her nose with his own. "Liked that, did you?" He smirked, fingers rolling along her back.

"I wish you'd kept it..." She would have worn it, and nothing else, to bed one night...just because. She nudged back, hardly noticing the purr that trilled from her.

"That Guido douchebag never knew what hit him. You played your part so well...That dress....that hair..."

"No...but we knew he wouldn't. Vicelli damn near shit a brick when you dropped the robe..." She whimpered softly, her hips pressing firmly to his for a breath.

"Do me a favor." he said with a smirk. "There should be a towel rack over there." He nodded toward the shower room. "Grab me one, will ya? I think I got his bronzer and hair gel on me..."

Tahlia nodded, and kissed him once more time before she stepped away. "Sure thing...if I never have to smell that awful cologne of his again...ugh..." She wouldn't mention it, but she might check to make sure there were no tell-tale smears of bronzer from where Rocco had tried to force the issue. With a smirk, Tahia sauntered over to the showers, disappearing behind the tiles.
The door to the locker room suddenly opened. No knocking, no announcement. The men just barged in. Big, bruiser-looking types in leather jackets and gold chains of their own. "Area's off limits boys." Simon said.

They said nothing. Then in-strolled Vincenzo Vicelli. He had a fresh cigar smoldering away and a cabbie hat pulled over his eyes. His huge form lumbering into the room. The thinner man stepped into the room, eyeing Simon with a rage he felt was almost tangible.

"Can I help you?" Simon asked, keeping his cool.

"Yeah, you cheatin' lowlife fuck-" The thin one said before Vicelli halted him.

"That was some fight, kid." He said, gesturing with his cigar. "Really put my kid in his place. Important lesson learned: Know who you're fightin'." He walked along the lockers looking at them a moment. "Bennigan. I'm guessin' that name's bullshit?"

Tahlia had laid a hand on the towel, and had taken a single step back toward Simon when the men hit the door. The hair she could fix...but Vicelli had been looking right at her, and the clothes...the clothes would give it all away. Pressing against the wall, she waited, listening. Simon could take care of himself, she knew...but there were enough of them that she found herself wishing for something to even the field.

Simon eyed him. "Could be. What's it to you."

"You cost me 250 grand. Humiliated my kid." He said simply, calmly. "You know who I am?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "I know who you are."

"Mm." Vincenzo approached him. "Good. Then you knew the risks of fightin' my son. Of swindlin' him. And yet...here we are, ain't we, kid?"

Simon just locked eyes with him. "You know if you lay a hand on me you won't make it out the door alive."

Vicelli had an almost friendly, endearing laugh. "Maybe." He nodded amusedly. "But that ain't my style. You owe me a lotta money kid. And I'll be collectin' soon. You got that? Mr. Toews?"

Simon's heart sank, but he didn't show it. That poker face remained in full effect. "Never heard of him."

The thin one pushed forward. "No? Well, I gotta name you will remember. Cameron Cotter." The hairs on the back of his neck stood tall, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to react.

"See, Cotter used to be a name people respected. Feared. Used to be a name that offered a certain amount of protection if you were his kid. And then some nobody punk shows up...kills him. Burns his whole empire to the fuckin' ground." He leaned in close to SImon, glaring. "I know your fucking face. I know who you are, you son of a bitch."

Simon eyed him. "Then you should much more God Damn afraid of me right now."

Cotter drew his arm back, ready to hit him, before Vicelli caught him and pushed him away, pointing one of those big sausage fingers at him. "Not here! Not right now!" He chastised the young man. Those eyes turned to Simon, narrowed. "I'll be seein' ya around, kid. Enjoy your victory. While ya can." With that the crew left, heading out into the night.

As soon as they were gone, his facade broke. He suddenly looked a little concerned.

How the fuck was there anyone from those days still alive? He'd killed every one of Cotter's men, burned the place to the ground. As far as he knew, the bastard HAD no children. So, who in the fuck was this kid?

She had no idea who Cameron Cotter was...or why the skinny pissy guy knew Simon...but she could hear the bone-deep hatred in his voice. Every sense was on high alert, and the small gift for mind-reading that usually only bolstered her stronger abilities strained to pick up as much as she could...which was hardly anything at all, and mostly focused on Simon's state of mind. She wouldn't worry til he did. Holding her breath, she heard them leave, heard the door slam shut behind them, and hesitantly stepped out of the showers, towel still held in her free hand. "Simon?" She knew better than to pry...but their little wager had just gotten more complicated than she liked.

Slowly he turned to her, he didn't bother putting on a facade. He just took the towel. "You heard all that?"

Nodding, she let go of the towel, her eyes searching his face. "Yeah...Who...you..." Taking a breath, she slid her arms around his ribs and set her head on his shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of his neck. "What do I need to know?"

His mind was absolute chaos, compared to that measured exterior. "He's someone...from my past." He said evenly. "Someone who shouldn't exist. I think I killed his father."

"oh." It was a remarkably understated response, but then...her past was littered with bodies. Fathers, sons, brothers...she had no room to judge, even were she so inclined. And this was Simon. "I'm sure you had a good reason." Her definition might be a little skewed, and include 'he hit a girl'. Still wrapped around him, she straightened enough to watch his face.

He let out a breath, leaving those thoughts behind. "Come on. Let's head out."

Vicelli, and whoever the thin Cotter spawn was were most assuredly on her list. Blood lust, for her, was a complicated thing, and didn't much like being frustrated. She blamed Simon not at all...but should she ever find herself with the opportunity, the others would pay. "Sure thing, killer...your place?"

That smirk of his returned to his face. "Oh yeah. My place."

Looping her arm through his, she headed out with him, her mood much improved in an instant. She knew that look.

[Simon Toews]

“Hey, Killer. Need a favor.” The screen read. Simon’s fingers moved quickly over the keyboard of his phone, typing out his reply.

“Whats up?”

The past few days had been uneventful, though, stressful. He spent the majority of it looking over his shoulder and drinking to numb the concerns gnawing at him, whispering to him. Aside from that night, he’d not seen or heard from Tahlia at all.

“Picking up a package and need some muscle. Meet me at Ridgeford Auditorium in about...30 sound good?” The response read.

“On my way.”

Simon tucked a pistol into a holster at his hip and another in the back of his pants. He leg propped up on a coffee table, he slipped a knife into a sheath at his ankle, hidden away by his boot and pant leg. Outside his window, the sun was setting, an orange glow tinging the darkening sky. A leather jacket was pulled on over a white henley. A rarity that he wear something other than black with his jeans. In the lower levels of the former factory that had once been his, he kept a brand newish Challenger...that might or might not have belonged to someone else.

The engine roared to life as he took off for the auditorium. He knew Calloway would be following not far behind, so he took as many abrupt turns as possible until he was sure he’d lost him.

Ridgeford was an older venue, decorated in the classical greek style. Tall, white marble and granite fixtures, a high domed ceiling and grand architecture made up the lobby. Simon stepped into the currently empty building, the hairs on the back of his neck already beginning to stand on end. He saw the first man in his periphery, step out from behind one of the columns surrounding the room. One by one, he sized them up.

“So.” He said. “That’s how we’re doing this?”

Among them was Charlie Cotter. The kid held a shotgun, eying Simon with a look that chilled even him to the bone.

“Alright.” Simon said simply. He drew his pistols quickly opened fire in as many directions as possible, running to one side. Two of the shots connected with one man’s chest. The momentary chaos keeping him from getting immediately gunned down.

The loud blast of guns echoed in the cavernous lobby. He dropped into a slide just before the man in front of him opened fire, coming to a stop at his feet and aiming upward and putting two rounds in his chest and another in his head. He rolled over the man’s body and managed to prop him up as a human shield as the gunfire came his way, the freshly made corpse jerking with every impact. The second he got a window, he blind-fired over the body and shifted himself to one knee, wheeling around to hid behind a column as the bullets pocked against it.

As soon as the gunfire stopped he started running to one side, both weapons raised and firing like mad. One of the hitmen came around in his path, a rifle raised, aimed at him. Quickly he brought one of his own up and put a round right through the man’s throat.

One of Vicelli’s men advanced upon him, weapon drawn and his heart pounding hard within his chest. He wheeled around but Simon had crouched. That knife cut into the man’s groin, pulled out with a spurt of crimson. Simon rose grabbing him by the back of the head and repeatedly stabbed him in the gut. With a shove the man came stumbling out, drawing the fire of his friends as Simon came out the other side, taking down another two men until he could find cover again.

Cotter fired on the fighter’s cover, falling back to find some for himself. “Blackout! Blackout!” He called out.

Simon, checked his ammo...one pistol was dry. He grit his teeth and dropped it to the ground. The other was getting low. The clank of a cannister brought him back to the moment, his eyes settling on it. With his the area began to rapidly fill with smoke, his blue eyes going wide.

Visibility was down to zero, the hitmen emboldened, moved toward the column that had become his cover. The second the barrel became visible Simon grabbed the bottom of the rifle, jerked it upward and threw an elbow into his stomach. But the hit man was tough. He took it, struggling with Simon over the gun until the fighter threw a knee into his groin and wrenched the weapon from his hands.

The victory, however, was short lived. A boot connected with Simon’s chest, sending him back into the wall. Simon tried to turn the gun on him but he knocked it aside clocking Simon across the jaw and tried to wrestle it from his grip. The hit man’s elbow slammed into his face twice before Simon put his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving him back into the pillar.

Deciding the gun was a lost cause, Simon chopped with both hands at the man’s neck, then kicked out his knee. As the attacker crumbled, Simon struck out with his knee, hitting him square in the throat.

Roughly, he spun him around and put his arm around the hit man’s neck, trying to choke the life out of him. But he wasn’t ready to go down so easily. He kicked back, sending both of them to the ground, Simon still clutching his attacker’s throat. The pair struggled in their death match as another rounded the corner.

Quickly, Simon pulled a pistol from the hit man’s shoulder holster, and fired, sending the other recoiling for safety. The silenced pistol pressed to the struggling man’s head and he pulled the trigger.

The other hit man came around pillar just in time for Simon grab his wrist, yanking him forward to drive his knee up into the man’s chest. And again. His arms came down then, blocking the next, a palm strike nailing Simon in the nose, blood already beginning to ooze out. In the momentary daze, Simon was grabbed the by the collar of his jacket and thrown face-first through the smoke and into a column with a loud thwack.

He stumbled back, the hit man lashing out with a vicious kick. But Simon turned away, gripping the leg tight and driving his elbow into the man’s knee, a loud pop coming from the limb. His foot hooked the other ankle and swept him off his feet. The body slammed against the ground with a loud thud.

Before he could finish him, Cotter's shotgun rang out, the marble wall behind Simon bursting in dust and debris. Simon recoiled and disappeared into the smoke.

Cotter rushed forward ready to kill but found only his wounded comrade. The man struggled up to his feet as Cotter swept the area with his weapon. Silence filled the room except for the smoke bomb.

“Come on, you fuckin’ coward!” Cotter screamed out. “You too afraid to fight me like a man?!”

Simon came from behind, leaping up, kicking off the wall, his foot connecting with wounded man’s shoulder, and catapulted himself through the air. Cotter turned just in time for Simon's fist to cross his face.

Cotter went down like a ton of bricks as Simon landed in a crouch. His eyes locked on the shotgun for a moment before he lunged for it.

Before he could reach it Cotter was on him, pulling him down. He threw back his elbow, catching the man in the chest once. Twice. Until finally, he was loose. Those battered, bloody hands wrapped around the weapon, but again, Cotter was there.

He grabbed the shotgun in his target’s hands, trying like hell to disarm him. The two men found their way to their feet, both gaining and losing ground. Cotter shoved the gun forward, hitting Simon in the face. He rearranged his body the shotgun pointed up. In their struggle, he pulled the trigger, sending the fire harmlessly into the wall. The again. And again. And again until it was empty.

Simon elbowed him in the gut, ripped the gun free, and clocked Cotter across the face with the stock. He pulled the beat up, torn jacket from his torso and threw it aside. Blue eyes watched the unconscious man a moment before he walked to a discarded pistol and picked it up.

Before he could finish his downed foe, more shots rang out, one knicking his left bicep. With a grunt, he fell back against the wall. Quickly he checked the wound and returned fire.

Outside, night had fallen. It was actually quite peaceful. That is, until the doors burst open, bullet riddled body coming flying through. Simon and another hit man came leaping out, clutching one another, separating as they hit the pavement.

Simon clambered to his feet, his knife drawn. The hit man on his, moved forward with his own. Even as he lashed out, Simon reversed his grip on his knife, grabbed his wrist and stabbed the underside of the man’s arm.

The hit man yelped, trading the knife to his good hand as Simon withdrew. The battered, blood splattered fighter stabbed at his opponent, but was blocked despite the injury to his arm, struggling to hold Simon at bay. With an impressive feat of strength, he slashed, the blade cutting into the left side of Simon’s chest.

Simon let out a grunt of pain and retreated back a few steps. He clutched the wound, blood oozing through his fingers. He prepared himself for whatever came next.

The wounded hit man let out a savage yell and charged, but Simon maneuvered aside, slashing his belly, letting him follow through, slicing across the man's lower back, and the grabbing him by the hair, jamming the blade into the base of his skull.

The hit man stood in stunned silence in the second before he died, his body going limp to the ground.

Simon stood over his ruined opponent’s corpse, panting and exhausted.

“Die, mother f-” another managed before Simon's blade was thrown, jamming through the front of his skull. Slowly, he fell to his knees, not quite living or dead just yet. Simon approached, taking the assault rifle from the sling around the man's neck. When the man hit the ground, relieved him of the extra magazines stashed in the vest upon his chest.

As he prepared to walk away, he heard the dead hit man’s phone chime. Slowly he approached, pulling it from his pocket and checked the screen.

“Girl is on her way. Moving into position at Toews’ place.”

A cold feeling ran through the very heart of him.

Tahlia.

Moments later the Challenger peeled out heading down the street with the pedal to the metal. He just hoped he wasn't too late.

[Simon Toews]

The message on Tahlia's cell told her to come by. Not any different than most of the booty calls that had her over at his place time and again. It never took much for them. She'd headed over without a second thought, parking the Spitfire on the corner, since there seemed to something in her usual spot. She didn't think much of it, maybe she should have, but she was dressed for a night in with her favorite fighter, and all she could think about what what lay ahead. Thankfully, she'd kept her key...and the minute the door closed behind her the blonde faded to red and swept across her shoulders as she headed to the lift. It was a bit unusual that he hadn't buzzed her...but then, they'd been roomies for a few weeks, maybe he figured she knew the way by now. Stepping out, the only sound was her heels against the floor..."Simon?"

The main living space was silent. No sign of the man whatsoever. Not in his room. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen. As she stepped out onto the fire escape, her phone chirped. She had a text.

"If he went out..." She left the sentence unfinished, blinking at the image on the screen. "What the..."

There were no words. Just a picture. It was from the night of the fight. Her, black hair and all. And Simon. Then a second later...another. Her. Looking down at her phone just now.

There was a loud thunk from across the way. What appeared to be a grenade launcher fired a smoke bomb at the building. The smoking cylinder soared past her head and into the building, filling it with a grey haze. Men were exiting an SUV below, armed to the teeth. The room filled with smoke, and she turned just in time to see the cavalry arrive. She'd been set up. Coughing, she moved into the smoke...if she couldn't see them, they couldn't see her, and at least she knew the layout like the back of her hand.

Behind her two Molotov cocktails sailed in through that second story fire-escape, fire bursting and spreading behind her.

On the ground floor, Rocco had stepped out of his SUV, his face stiched and scarred, bearing the evidence of Simon's savage beating from the other night. She'd humiliated him. Played him. Turnabout was fair play. "Wait here. I'm making sure that bitch doesn't leave here alive."

He stepped onto the lift and racked the gun as the doors slid shut.

Glass glittered against her skin, cutting in, but leaving no blood. Jade eyes widened as she realized she was left with one way out...and the lift was moving. She didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know it wasn't friendly. Trying to ignore the fire...ignore the heat and the screams that echoed through centuries, she ignored the tiny pricks of pain and headed toward the kitchen. Or not quite the kitchen...the area just beyond it where Simon kept his weapons. She might be good, but she couldn't face an army on her own...not without a way to make them bleed, and die. Luckily she could move quickly in heels...and moving forward, getting out...well, it kept her from thinking about how they'd gotten Simon's phone.

That lift slid open, revealing Rocco. "Hey, Teresa! Time for our date!" He called out and fired blindly into the room, the pellets tearing into drywall and shattering glass. The musclebound lug moved in, taking cover behind a wall. "Come on out and make this easy!" He called to her. "Otherwise I'm gonna make this HURT!"

Again, he leaned out and fired into the smoke.

Her teeth cut into her lip as more glass rained over her, peppering her skin with shards. Not a problem, except for the pain. She couldn't clear them without bleeding, and she needed her strength. Trying to muffle the coughing, mascara running from the smoke, she found the cabinet, and reached inside. Guns were not her weapon of choice, but she'd rather not let Rocco close enough to cut him. She just needed him to bleed. Grabbing a shotgun, and a pistol, she paused, and slid a pair of knives into her bra. Better safe. She should have known. Slinking through the smoke, she heard the blast, and hit the wall. "I'm just fine here, thanks...I can't smell that vile cologne of yours..."

He growled and wheeled the gun in the direction he heard the voice and fired, going way wide of her. He was no better at shooting than he was at fighting. "I'm gonna shove this gun down your smart fuckin' mouth and make you a Goddamn pez dispenser!"

"You couldn't shove anything anywhere..." She couldn't resist baiting him, drawing him out. She needed him closer...needed to be able to see him. Swinging the gun around the corner, she fired, likely wide, but hitting him wasn't the point. "Did you really think I was going to let you fuck me?"

He moved out into the smoky room, quiet as can be, that shotgun shouldered and ready to go. That shot went just past him and made him duck for cover behind Simon's couch, blind firing over the back.

Lucky shot, as birdshot tore through her bicep, and she bit back a scream. Just because she didn't bleed didn't mean it didn't hurt. She was strong..she was confident...she was scared, and fighting memories, and realizing he had her pinned. Shit. "You saw him...in the ring. The way he moves...compared to him you're a boy...even your father thought he was more of a man." She needed him blind...stupid with rage.

"FUCK YOU!" He screamed, rising up and firing even where she wasn't, climbing over the couch in the general direction of her voice, unloading shell after shell until the weapon clicked dry.

There it was. She spun out, and fired, she only needed a few to hit him...just enough to give her something to work with. But he was closer than she'd expected, and coming fast. Dropping the shotgun, she pulled the pistol, and aimed for center mass...there was too much smoke to tell if she'd hit him with the shot. "Never happen. And he's done things to me you'll only ever dream about..." She squeezed the trigger, eyes closed because she couldn't see, but she could hear...

On the street, Simon was speeding wildly the factory in-sight and puffing out smoke like mad. They were there. And Tahlia was likely dead. That meant one thing. Kill them all.

On the ground floor Rocco's back up waited, smoking and talking shit. Suddenly, the overhead door was ripped open as the Charger tore on through, Simon slamming on the brakes, taking out on man and then smashing another between his car and the SUV. He stepped out and opened fire on the rest with the rifle, taking them out one by one. He knew there would be more. But the immediate threat was gone. He changed out the spent mag and called down the lift.

Upstairs, she could smell the blood through the smoke...she'd hit him somewhere, at least. Tahlia's bullet tore through Rocco's shoulder...and she was now aware he was on some sort of drugs because it only gave him pause. The shotgun clattered to the ground as he rushed her, his massive form plowing into her, hands wrapping around her throat. "DIE YOU FUCKING CUNT!" He snarled, hoisting her off the ground. The screams echoed in her ears, but she was in some dingy motel room and there was blood and pain, but she couldn't draw enough breath to utter the word that would save her. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear gunfire, the screech of metal, but it all blended into past and present and she couldn't breathe. This time...this time she had a little more in her corner. Those giant hands had her near to blacking out in no time...but she didn't have to aim with him so close. She barely squeezed the trigger...the bullet tearing into the femoral artery just before her world went black.

He dropped her then suddenly, letting out a scream and fell back on the ground, clutching his freely bleeding leg. The adrenaline pumping did nothing to help, and made him bleed worse. Rocco crawled away from her as best he could, blood spurting freely.

Collapsing to the floor, she looked like a crumpled doll for a moment. Crimson locks tumbled over her face, broken glass sparkling against her exposed skin...slowly, she pushed up, glaring at Rocco through the smoke. "Bleed, you bastard...bleed and die..." Watching his blood obey her, she managed a brief smile...at least he'd pay for whatever he'd done to Simon. If only she didn't hurt so much.

His eyes went wide as the blood rushed from every bit of him, pure terror in his eyes as she drained him. Rocco tried to flee, but his body would not cooperate. The blood bursting from his wounds as he shook violently.

"ROCK! WE GOTTA GO!" A voice called out. "What the fuck?" Said the terrified goon, watching Tahlia leaving the man hollow.

A ding came from behind him as the doors opened. Before he could even turn around his chest burst as round and after round tore through him. Surprise took hold on his face as he dropped, revealing Simon, his nose busted, his face covered in grime and blood. His white shirt stained red around his chest and arm, a look of pure feral rage in his eyes. He held the smoking rifle at his shoulder until he noticed her.

"Simon!" It would have been louder if she wasn't trying to make her throat work through smoke and damage. She shook her head, scrambling to her feet. It couldn't be, but it was, and all she could think of was getting to him. Almost without conscious thought, his bleeding stopped...bleeding Rocco had barely tapped her abilities, and he was hurt. The dead goons, the fire...it all disappeared. Standing, she took a swaying step, and then another, her skin streaked with black and red.

He rushed to her then, the rifle left behind without a thought. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her to him. Their lips meeting as his world and everything in it burned around him. Everything but her. Everything but this. Tahlia was alive. Tahlia was here. Tahlia was his.

She could suffocate before she'd tear her lips from his and not care. She was in his arms and it was all that mattered. All she needed. All she wanted. It was right there in the press of their bodies, the feel of his lips on hers. He was alive, and he'd come for her and nothing else meant anything. Even the fire couldn't hurt her and the screams faded. Blood, death, destruction...everything faded and all there was was him.

When their lips finally parted, he looked her in the eyes, a smile spreading across his battered face...but all good things had to come to an end. The fire was now by the weapons Including the explosives. Simon's face fell. "We need to go."

She reached up to touch his face...as if it was the last bit of proof she needed. Her eyes shone, nearly glowing in the firelight, and she came back to reality with a start. "Car's outside..." She didn't spare a thought for the Vicelli's or their men. She simply didn't care. She had the only thing that mattered. "Can we...?"

"Yeah. Come on." He said, nodding to the door the last goon had come through. He lead her to the emergency stairwell, opening the door and immediately finding one of Vicelli's men standing there. He took her pistol completely by instinct putting two to his chest and another to his forehead, sending the body tumbling down the three levels of stairs and slamming to the concrete below.

"Next place...no stairs..." She quipped. Breathing hurt. Her gifts could do nothing about smoke inhalation, and her throat had barely had time to heal from the last time. She hardly blinked as he sent the body tumbling...hand in hand she followed along behind him, utterly failing at situational awareness, and relying entirely on him.

The pair made their way down the stairwell, rounding the corner onto the second level landing. The door opened behind them, arms wrapped around Tahlia and grabbed her roughly, shoving her up against the wall. Tahlia screamed as the arms wrapped around her ribs and dragged her back, knocking what little wind she had left to her out of her lungs and cutting off the scream with a sudden gasp. Another ran past, slamming into Simon, and putting him into the one opposite.

Simon wasted no time, driving an elbow into his neck, then kneeing him in the stomach and throwing him over the railing.

Tahlia's attacker was grabbed from behind, then. Simon pulled him off of her and threw him back against the wall, the hit man crumbling to the ground. She fell to the ground as the weight disappeared, chest heaving as she sucked in air, best she could. Copper tickled the back of her nose, and she blinked up from beneath the curtain of crimson, the occasional streak of black showing where the fire had singed her. He'd threatened what was his. Simon drove his boot heel down onto the man's face. Again and again and again he stomped on him, hands braced against the wall, snarls of rage leaving the tattooed fighter. He stomped and stomped and stomped until there was a mess of gore that no longer resembled a face. Even in the ring, she'd never seen him like this. The nickname had come from her recognizing the coiled intensity...the capability to do what he was doing right now. It didn't frighten her, if anything, she stared, transfixed and breathing with a certain shallow intensity. There was no denying it any longer. Some part of her had known for weeks, had fought it...she was lost. Utterly, irretrievably.

Simon panted, backing away, blue eyes alive with fiery hatred. The past alive and replaying in his head. This was something he'd left behind. Something he no longer was. Or so he liked to tell himself.

No. This part of him was back. Her nickname for him taking a whole new frightening reality.

Simon turned to her slowly, eyes wide, seeming particularly bright in the mask of dried blood that covered his face. His hand rose slowly to her. "We're leaving. Now."