If there was one thing Dave Karofsky regretted the most in his life, it would be mistakenly placing his gun in his left pocket before leaving the abandoned building. One would think you could just as easily reach across your body, grasping the handgun by the handle, and pulling it out as you could use the same and to draw the gun from it's corresponding pocket. However, when you are not aware of the gun resting in the opposite pocket, it turns out that it's much easier to be smacked upside the head with a blunt object than it is to actually realize your mistake. And Dave, unfortunately, had discovered this the hard way, almost certain of the rapidly growing goose egg on the back oh his head. Actually, the whole "waking up tied to a chair and a sharp pain just above the hairline on the back of his neck also equally represented this theory of drawing handguns, just as the faint memory of a loud screech of what Dave supposed would be his initial target gave just before being knocked out reminded him of how much of a failure he was, and would be viewed as when he returned.

If he returned, that is.

So instead of worrying about the possibility of his impending execution, Dave was currently more focused on the fact that this supposedly "easy to take out" target has him bound and blindfolded.

Outstanding.

Being completely honest, Dave had really never envisioned himself in the life of crime. His family lived fairly well, and stayed relatively wealthy before and throughout the war. As prohibition set in, though, the general popularity of bootleggers and distributors rose dramatically, and it was more and more of a common occurrence to run into a gangster. Unfortunately, if your intent was to run into one, it usually did not end well on your part, and often had you sleeping in the ground that night rather than warm in your bed.

Before his days of service, Dave remembered the nights of living in the less incorporated parts of the city, where he'd lose sleep from the sudden burst of a gunshot, or the panicked, whispered conversations of those in the deepest of trouble, wanting to escape from the city limits and desperately find a new safe haven,

From these unintentional eavesdroppings, Dave had learned, you either side with them, or stay out of it completely.

Dave had decided that joining would be the far better choice than accidentally setting them off.

He'd found his gang through a friend, who was also unfortunately under the impression that you had a better shot on top and feared rather than alone and prone to making possibly fatal mistakes just by talking to the wrong person.

"Don't be sayin' anything too arrogant," Nick said, shutting the door behind Dave as they entered the surprisingly well kept building. "I had to pull a full strings, but I think the boss'll like ya." Dave nodded, and they proceeded up the stairs, steps creaking slightly as they ascended slowly. Once at the top, Dave moved aside, and allowed Nick to step in front of him to open the closed door. Nick did so, and Dave stepped in cautiously, though careful to not look too intimidated. He flinched, however, when the door behind him had shut, and he casted a quick glance over his shoulder to find Nick had left him alone. He swallowed, and finally dared to look at who he had to impress.

Directly across from the door was a large desk, which was nearly empty for all but a large case, to which Dave had presumed to contain either a handgun or a shot glass and a bottle of scotch.

He'd hoped it was the latter.

The boss himself was in the chair behind the desk, and Dave had caught his eyes. From across the room, Dave could not make out the colour, other than that they were dark. And cold. His face would have appeared more friendly if there wasn't a thick, dark shadow of stubble lining his squared jaw line. There was a man standing behind him who clearly towered over Dave, hair disheveled, though with a more kept and clean shaven face. Dave assumed this was the Boss' secondhand.

"Mr. Karofsky," the boss had started, hands clasped on the desk. He pulled them apart for a moment to gesture to the chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat."

Dave obliged, and made his way to the chair before he sat down slowly, and remembered to avoid slumping at all costs. It was his one chance to impress this man.

"As you may have noticed, we ain't alone," the Boss glanced to his right at the tall man beside him. "My Scout. Next time you need to talk, come to him."

Scout blinked.

Dave nodded.

The Boss leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Dave. "Now listen here. Nick is one of my best men, so I ain't gonna judge his insight. He tells me you're clean, and I'm'onna trust him. But I gotta check, for my own well being. You ever bootlegged before? Given anyone the bump?"

Dave shook his head. He wasn't quite sure what exactly a bump was, but he was almost certain he hadn't done anything a mobster would ask about. Unless he was supposed to have done something? Dave's attention flickered back to the metal case on the desk, now desperately praying it was in fact the booze he had thought of when he first entered this now uncomfortable and suffocating room. He heard Scout scoff beside the Boss, and flinched, now sure that he should have at least lied and said he'd robbed a bank or something.

The Boss ignored his secondhand, and instead leaned back once again, and seemed to be relatively satisfied. Satisfied? Dave thought, feeling his palms begin to clam. How in god's name could he be satisfied with me? I've got about as much bad in my bones as a tabby cat. He's probably planning my execution right now, just for even thinking about talking to him! Dave snapped out of his paranoid state of mind when the two in front of him shared a look, and Scout spoke up for the first time.

"Boss is willing to give you a chance."

It'd been nearly three months since Dave had first met the Boss before he finally considered himself one of them. At first, he'd be assigned to transport, where he'd pick up deposits outside of the city, usually near the ports or in abandoned warehouses. He'd never even seen the depositors, and instead would arrive in the middle of the night to find the alcohol alone, safely hidden away out of view to those who weren't looking for it in the first place. It wasn't any less of an important job, but it was the one you could risk new men with. The less skilled, rather. Even woman were trusted enough to often be sent out to retrieve it.

Then there were hitmen. Scout was who others would hire to take someone out that was an apparent problem, and then Scout would come to the group. From then, he would decide which one of the elitist members would be sent out, usually determined by the job needed. Dave had befriended a hitter: Santana, who coincidentally was the only woman in the gang. She wasn't necessarily the only woman to be seen; Scout seemed to bring in a new dame every week, and they would retire to a bedroom. Then again, there were also rumours of Scout also bringing a man up to the Boss' office.

Santana was incredibly outspoken. A few of the men were surprised she'd been accepted in the first place, considering she never seemed to get along with the secondhand or the Boss. Or anyone, really. Nevertheless, Dave had been drawn to her. Which ironically enough, had drawn Scout to himself.

Which is why he was assigned his first takeout.

"Me?" Dave asked, raising an eyebrow as Scout slid photos in front of him.

"No, you sap. The other man in here."

Dave turned his head.

Scout ignored the urge to leave due to Dave's idiotic habit of taking everything seriously, and instead continued. "He's famous around these parts. Hasn't been a problem, b' now we're thinking otherwise."

Dave ran his finger over the picture, stopping as it reached the man's face. Even from the picture, Dave could see the man was pale. He was lean, and tall, and he seemed to be dressed fairly well. From what he could tell, he would never expect the man to be a problem with anyone. Then, you could quite judge anyone simply on appearance these days.

"Why me?"

"Power."

Dave looked up from the table, cocking his head.

"He ain't as weak as he looks. He's got wits, and the only way to beat that is with either more intelligence, or more brawn." Scout studied Dave. "And since we're lacking in the mental department here, we best send the biggest."

If Dave wasn't uncomfortable before this actual conversation had started, he was now. He was suspicious as to why Scout had come to him rather than any of the other men, considering they were equally as strong physically as Dave was. And if this was a size factor, Dave wasn't sure as to why Scout didn't go himself, considering he was both obviously personally connected to this man, and larger height wise.

Then Dave felt shamed, because he realized the deciding factor was weight.

At any rate, you didn't go against the Scout, so Dave agreed, sliding the photos back across the table.

Scout stood up with Dave, collecting the photos once again, before handing Dave a brass box. "His name is Kurt Hummel. Though that won't matter shortly, will it?"

Dave accepted the box, and opened it to be faced with a polished handgun. He'd known that he was being hired to kill the man, and sent out on his first hit job, but it didn't set in until he'd seen the gun himself. His gun.

At least that solved the mystery of the desk box.

"No sir," he responded quickly, pulling the gun out and slipping it into his left pocket.

When Dave had arrived at the apartment, he should have been suspicious from the start. Despite it being the middle of the night, the front door was unlocked. Dave opened it the rest of the way, stepping in and slowly pulling the door until it was nearly closed. From there, he scanned the interior. The living area was to the left, and a door that Dave supposed to be bedroom was directly across from him. He turned to the right, which he assumed to be usually empty was actually occupied by a large pair of blue eyes.

The eyes leapt at him, letting out a screech as Dave instinctively reached for his gun. However, he grasped at air.

Son of a bitch.

Dave caught a glimpes of the man's- Kurt's- face a moment before everything went black.

When he became conscious once again, his head throbbing, everything still black. For a moment, Dave wondered if the assault had led to him being tortured and blinded before he felt the tightness around his wrists, chest, and ankles. He blinked, feeling something covering them- a blindfold. It wasn't until a voice spoke out from the darkness when Dave was jolted from confusion.

"You want to tell me who sent you?"